mm 


#'339 


WOVEN  OF  MANY  THREADS, 


"La  vie  complete!  C'est  le  programme  de  la  renaissance.  II  est  bon  que  Tame 
essaie  de  toutes  les  attitudes.  II  est  bon  que  1'homme  multiplie  ses  sentimens  et  ses 
pense'es  ;  les  esprits  et  les  coaurs  en  friche  ne  sont  pas  agre'ables  a  Dieu.  II  est  bon 
que  rhomme  sache  rire,  aussi  bien  que  pleurer  ;  si  le  travail  et  la  douleur  sont  sacre's, 
les  plaisirs  purs  n'ont  rien  qui  offense  la  supreme  sagesse.'' 


"Hast  thou  suffered?" 

"No." 

"  Then  this  book  is  not  for  thee." 


BOSTON: 
JAMES    R.  OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

LATE  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co. 

1871. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871, 

BY   JAMES   R.    OSGOOD   &   CO., 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  HELMSFORD  HALL 1 

n.  HELMSFORD  RECTORY 2 

III.  THE  HEIR  OF  HELMSFORD 4 

IV.  HOW   CARELESSLY   WE   GO   TO    MEET  pUR   FATE          ....  5 

V.  OXLY  A  DEAD  LEAF 7 

VI.  "  Two  LIVES  so  NEARLY  JOINED  IN  ONE  " 9 

VII.  THE  STORY  OF  MONA 10 

VIII.  "  O  LIFE,  so  STREET  AND  YET  so  SAD  ! " 14 

IX.  "  AND  TIME  SWINGS  WIDE  HIS  OUTWARD  GATE"       .        .        .        .16 

X.  CHATEAU  LE  COMPTE 19 

XL  AM  I  TO  BLAME? 22 

XII.  TOMBS  AND  PICTURES 25 

XIII.  IN  SEARCH  «F  HAPPINESS 29 

XIV.  SANTO  SPIRITO 33 

XV.  SAN  MICHELE 36 

XVI.  VILLA  ALDOBRANDINI '40 

XVII.  CAPELLA  DEL  CORO 42 

XVIII.  IL  MAESTRO        .         .         . 46 

XIX.  MP.S.  TREMAINE  AND  THE  PRINCE  CONTI 49 

XX.  A  USELESS  QUEST 53 

XXI.  AM   I   WORTHY   TO   BE   YOUR   FRIEND? 56 

XXII.  WAS  IT  POVERTY  OR  SHAME  ? 59 

XXIII.  LET    ME    LIVE    IN    THE    PRESENT 61 

XXIV.  THE  RETREAT  OF  A  SUFFERING  HEART 63 

XXV.  THE  CHARITY  OF  THE  WORLD •        .  65 

XXVI.  I    SEEM    TO    HAVE    HEARD    THAT    VOICE    BEFORE           ....  69 

XXVII.  LADY  DINSMORE  AND  THE  MAESTRO 70 

XXVIII.  ONLY  A  LITTLE  MARBLE  CROSS                73 


2051114 


iv  CONTENTS. 

XXIX.    THE  TIDE  THAT  BEARS  us  ON 77 

XXX.    ALL  is  OVER  BETWEEN  us  FOREVER 81 

XXXI.    WHY?    ...                 84 

XXXII.    BY  THE  SEA 86 

XXXIII.  SANS  Souci 89 

XXXIV.  THE  KOMANCE  OF  LADY  DINSMORE'S  LIFE        ....  93 

XXXV.     HOW  IT   ENDED 96 

XXXVI.     I   HAVE   LOVED   YOU   FROM   THE   FIRST 98 

XXXVII.    THE  BATTLE  OF  CASTEL  FIDARDO 101 

XXXVIII.    AT  LAST  PACE  TO  FACE       - 103 

XXXIX.  UNDER  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  MOON  .......    106 

XL.  RICHARD  VANDELEUR'S  REPARATION  .        .        .'       .        .        .         108 

XLI.  THE  CONVENT  OF  THE  SACRE  CCEUR      ...        .        .        .        .113 

XLII.    NEITHER  POVERTY  NOR*  SHAME 116 

XLIII.    UNDER  THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS 120 

XLIV.    SHE  SMILED  IN  THE  FACE  OF  DEATH 124 

XLV.  HELMSFORD  HALL             ....                .                        .126 


> 


WOVEN  OF  MANY  THREADS. 


CHAPTER  I 

HELMSFORD    HALL. 

HELMSFORD  HALL,  and  the  family 
of  Vandeleur,  dated  back  to  the  reign 
of  Henry  VI.  There  seemed  to  be  a 
strange  fatality  connected  with  the  birth 
of  sons,  for  never  but  one  in  each  genera- 
tion lived  to  reach  his  majority.  It  was 
always  Richard  Vandeleur  of  Helmsford,  — 
the  name  of  father  and  son  since  the  earliest 
records  of  the  family. 

In  remote  generations  there  had  been 
many  lovely  daughters  who  had  married  and 
given  children  to  the  noble  house,  but  not 
to  the  proud  name. 

It  was  a  tradition  in  the  family,  that,  when 
the  War  of  the  Roses  ended,  and  Henry  VII. 
presented  his  trusty  servant  and  friend, 
Richard  Vandeleur,  with  the  broad  lands  of 
Helmsford,  he  had  also  offered  him  a  title, 
which  the  brave  soldier  sturdily  refused, 
preferring  to  be  simply  Richard  Vandeleur, 
gentleman ;  and  so  it  had  been  for  all  these 
generations. 

In  all  England  there  was  not  a  more 
beautiful  estate  than  Helmsford,  or  a  more 
imposing  country  mansion  than  Helmsford 
Hall,  —  a  substantial  gray  stone  construc- 
tion, of  mixed  architecture.  Around  its  three 
sides  ran  two  rows  of  open  porticos,  the 
lower  Doric,  the  upper  Ionic.  A  double 
flight  of  massive  stone  steps  led  to  the 
grand  entrance,  on  either  side  of  which 
were  couchant  lions,  holding  between  their 
paws  tablets  bearing  the  family  coat  of  arms. 

From  its  high  position  it  commanded  a 
magnificent  view  of  distant  mountains,  hills, 
and  valleys,  and,  far  beyond,  the  broad,  open 
sea.  In  the  middle  landscape  were  miles  of 
rich  meadow  land,  dotted  here  and  there  with 
the  white  cottages  of  the  happy  farmers  of 
England.  Directly  under  the  eye  the  broad 
park  and  terraced  gardens  of  Helmsford, 
ornamented  with  fountains  and  statues,  in 
the  midst  of  which  swept  two  broad  carriage 
drives  from  the  terraces  to  the  massive 
gates,  bordered  on  each  side  with  stately 
oaks  and  elms.  Whichever  way  the  eye 
turned,  one  saw  the  verdant  representatives 
1 


of  every  clime,  —  pines  from  the  dreary 
north,  magnolia  and  ilex  from  the  sunny 
south,  and  palms  from  the  far-off  tropics. 

On  this  day,  April  6,  18—,  there  was  the 
confusion  of  excited  expectation  in  the  ap- 
pearance of  all  that  appertained  to  the 
mansion.  For  eight  years  it  had  been  closed, 
but  to-day  windows  and  doors  are  thrown 
open,  and  servants  pass  in  and  out  with  that 
air  of  importance  that  plainly  foretells  a 
coming  event,  for  to-night  Richard  Vnnde- 
leur,  the  heir  and  last  of  his  name,  returns 
to  Helmsford,  after  an  absence  of  eight 
years.  Within  the  mansion  are  unmistaka- 
ble signs  of  great  joy :  the  furniture,  pic- 
tures, and  mirrors  have  laid  aside  their  linen 
shrouds,  and  reveal  themselves  in  all  their 
original  freshness  to  the  admiring  eyes  of 
the  new  servants.  The  stately  butler  is 
everywhere,  giving  orders  in  a  kindly,  pat- 
ronizing tone,  detecting  with  equal  alac- 
rity a  speck  of  dust  in  the  grand  saloon  or 
an  unsavory  odor  in  the  kitchen. 

As  the  day  draws  to  a  close,  the  house- 
keeper, in  stiff  silk,  rustles  from  room  to 
room  to  see  that'all  is  in  perfect  order.  Slu 
stops  for  a  moment  in  the  grand  corridor, 
where  hang  the  family  portraits,  and  as  s-lu 
regards  the  bewitching  face  of  the  last  Mrs, 
Vandeleur,  she  sighs  and  says  audibly :  — 

"  This  reminds  me  of  thirty-four  years 
ago,  when  we  were  expecting  Mr.  Vande- 
leur and  his  bride.  My  poor  father  was 
butler  then,  and  I  was  a  slip  of  a  girl  wild 
with  delight  because  there  was  to  be  some 
stir  in  the  house.  How  lovely  the  looked 
that  night  as  ?he  stepped  out  of  the  car- 
riage and  came  tripping  up  to  the  door,  with 
a  sweet  smile  and  gentle  word  to  all !  Ah, 
how  soon  her  bright  eyes  closed  on  her 
young  life,  leaving  the  little  wailing  baby, 
and  my  poor  master  heart-broken  !  Though 
he  lived  ten  years  after  her  death,  I  never 
saw  him  smile  in  all  that  time.  The  day 
she  went  out  of  the  door  in  her  coffin,  sad- 
ness seemed  to  enter,  for  ever  since  all  has 
been  dull  and  gloomy.  "If  Mr.  Vandeleur 
were  only  bringing  a  young  wife  home  with 
him,  things  might  bo  different,  but  as  it  is  I 
fear  he  will  be  off  again  to  foreign  countries. 
He  's  not  like  his  father,  —  the  quiet  of  the 


2 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


old  hall  and  the  dull  country  life  docs  n't 
suit  him.  He  has  only  spent  a  few  weeks 
here  since  he  left  college,  and  then  he  was 
always  discontented  and  restless.  The 
Vandeleurs  have  always  been  so  steady 
and  domestic,  married  young,  and  lived  the 
lives  of  quiet  country  gentlemen  ;  but  Mr. 
llichard  is  not  like  them,  he  prefers  his 
roving  life  and  foreign  hotels  to  his  ewn 
elegant  home,  and  he  has  already  passed 
his  thirtieth  year,  and  yet  seems  no  nearer 
taking  a  wife  than  he  did  at  twenty.  If  he 
dies  without  marrying,  what  will  become  of 
the  estate  ?  There  are  no  Vandeleurs  to 
inherit  it.  It  must  go  to  some  distant  fe- 
male branch,  and  the  name  will  become 
extinct." 

Just  then  the  sound  of  carriage  wheels 
was  heard  on  the  gravel  below,  and  the 
old  lady  finished  her  soliloquy  as  she  has- 
tened down  the  stairs,  that  she  might  be  the 
first  to  welcome  her  master. 


CHAPTER  II. 

HELJISFORD    RECTORY. 

THE  slanting  rays  of  the  setting  sun 
stole  into  the  west  windows  of  Helms- 
ford  rectory,  and  rested  for  a  moment  like 
golden  arrows  on  the  white  hair  of  Mr. 
Wilbreham,  as  he  lay  back  in  his  arm-chair, 
comfortably  enjoying  his  after-dinner  nap. 

The  room  was  furnished  with  comfort, 
taste,  and  elegance.  Pictures  of  no  little 
merit  adorned  the  walls,  and  graceful  stat- 
uettes the  niches.  In  the  windows  were 
stands  filled  with  rare  flowers,  that  flooded 
the  room  with  a  faint  delicious  odor.  A  soft 
carpet  in  which  the  pervading  color  was  a 
warm  mossy  green,  furniture  of  dark  ruby 
velvet,  and  curtains  of  the  same  rich  hue, 
made  the  whole  as  perfect  in  tone  and 
detail  as  English  drawing-rooms  usually  are. 
A  bright  fire  burned  in  an  open  steel  grate, — 
for  the  evening  was  chilly,  —  and  a  beautiful 
spaniel  lay  in  the  warmth  on  a  tiger-skin 
at  his  master's  feet. 

Mr.  Wilbreham  moved  slightly  in  his 
sleep  as  the  door  was  softly  opened  and  a 
young  girl  entered.  At  first,  in  the  half- 
light,  it  was  difficult  to  see  what  her  face 
was  like  ;  but  as  she  walked  with  a  languid 
grace  toward  the  window,  and  stood  with 
her  eyes  fixed  sadly  and  dreamily  on  the 
distant  clouds  tinged  with  the  last  faint 
radiance  of  the  setting  sun,  there  was 
something  in  her  tout  ensemble  that  almost 
startled  one  with  its  strange  beauty  and 
gentle  grace.  She  was  dressed  in  rich 
black  silk  that  trailed  behind  her  in  heavy 
folds  ;  a  plain,  tight-fitting  corsage  reveal- 
ed the  perfect  proportions  of  the  elegant 


shoulders,  bust,  and  round,  slender  waist ; 
a  collar  of  delicate  lace  fastened  with  a  jet 
pin  encircled  the  throat,  and  cuffs  of  the 
same  finished  the  sleeves,  tight  fitting  at  the 
Lands,  which  were  perfect  in  shape,  white, 
and  almost  childish  in  their  dimpled  beauty. 
How  can  I  portray  her  face  ?  It  had  that 
rare  and  subtile  charm  that  always  defies 
description,  —  a  broad,  low  forehead,  from 
which  was  turned  back  like  a  coronet  heavy 
waves  of*  hair  that,  at  the  first  glance,  ap- 
peared black,  but  in  the  light  was  a  bronze 
brown  ;  a  complexion  as  lair  and  spotless 
as  a  rose-leaf,  with  scarcely  a  tinge  of  color 
in  the  cheeks ;  eyes  of  bluish  gray,  long  in 
shape,  with  slightly  drooping  lids  fringed 
with  lashes  so  dark  they  gave  a  shadowy 
softness  to  that  part  of  her  face ;  the  brows 
were  the  color  of  her  lashes,  slightly  arched, 
with  that  mournful  droop  at  the  temples 
one  notices  in  the  lovely  face  of  the  French 
Empress  ;  her  nose  was  straight,  and  in  the 
high  spirited  curves  of  the  nostrils  was 
just  a  little  expression  of  scorn  ;  but  perhaps 
in  her  mouth  lay  the  beauty,  the  rare 
charm  and  fascination  of  her  face.  Her 
upper  lip,  short  and  rather  thin,  but  exqui- 
sitely chiselled  in  arch  curves,  was  almost 
lost  in  iaint  crimson  lines  in  the  dimpled 
corners  ;  the  under  lip  was  full  and  passion- 
ate, yet  there  was  something  inexpressibly 
sad  and  sweet  in  the  whole,  —  something 
of  that  grieved,  childish  expression  that  one 
notices  in  the  sad  and  touching  face  of  the 
Beatrice  Cenci. 

Constance  Wilbreham,  until  her  four- 
teenth year,  had  lived  a  life  of  childish, 
unalloyed  happiness.  To  a  sister  six  years 
older,  and  a  brother  who  was  twelve  when 
she  was  born,  she  had  been  the  idol  and 
pet.  Her  mother  had  died  at  her  birth, 
and  her  father,  after  the  loss  of  the  wife 
whom  he  adored,  had  lived  the  life  of  a 
stern-ascetic.  He  seldom  went  abroad,  and 
only  as  his  clerical  duties  demanded,  and  it 
was  rarely  that  visitors  came  to  the  rectory ; 
so  in  this  brother  and  sister  her  whole 
young  life  was  centred  ;  every  innocent 
joy  and  pleasure  was  connected  with  them. 
Within  three  years  God  took  them  both. 
First,  her  sister ;  she  came  home  one  day 
from  a  visit  to  a  poor  woman  who  was  ill 
with  what  afterward  proved  to  be  a  malig- 
nant fever.  She  complained  of  feeling  cold, 
and  went  to  her  room  with  burning  spots 
on  her  cheeks  and  racking  pains  in  her 
head.  For  two  weeks  she  tossed  and ' 
moaned  in  wild  delirium,  never  for  a  mo- 
ment recognizing  the  little  sister  who  hung 
over  her  in  speechless  agony.  Then  the 
lamp  waned,  flickered,  and  went  out,  and 
she  Avas  laid  by  her  mother  under  the  east 
window  of  Ilelmsford  church,  with  her  feet, 
that  had  so  soon  finished  the  journey  of  life, 
toward  the  rising  sun,  and  her  fair  young 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


face  upturned  to  God,  there  to  rest  until 
that  morning  when  the  sun  shall  shine  upon 
her,  to  set  no  more  forever. 

For  months  Constance  was  inconsolable, 
scarcely  eating  or  sleeping,  wandering  from 
her  sister's  grave  to  her  chamber,  weeping 
with  her  head  upon  the  pillow  where  she 
had  so  often  rested,  or  pressing  her  tear- 
stained  face  almost  frantically  to  the  green 
sod  that  covered  the  last  resting-place  of 
the  beloved  dead.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
her  brother,  who,  fearing  grief  would  kill 
the  child,  left  his  studies  at  Oxford  and 
devoted  himself  to  her,  she  surely  must 
have  succumbed  to  her  deep  sorrow.  As 
he  tried  every  means  to  divert  her,  she 
gradually  became  more  cheerful,  but  never 
again  the  light-hearted,  happy  child  she  had 
been  before. 

Two  years  after,  that  idolized  brother,  in 
all  the  strength  and  glory  of  youth,  was 
brought  from  Oxford  to  his  childhood's 
home,  hopelessly  insane.  Over-study  in 
preparing  to  graduate  had  affected  a  ner- 
vous excitable  temperament,  and  an  already 
overtasked  brain,  so  as  to  extinguish  for- 
ever the  light  of  reason.  For  six  months 
he  lingered  in  that  terrible  darkness,  some- 
times gentle  and  tractable  as  a  child,  or  again 
raving  in  the  strongest  and  wildest  delirium. 

Constance  scarcely  left  him.  Even  at 
the  worst  she  could  soothe  and  calm  him 
with  her  gentle  voice  and  tender  caresses. 
Sometimes  the  poor  soul,  wandering  in 
gloom,  would  seem  to  draw  near  the  light 
for  a  moment,  and  she  would  believe  he 
recognized  her  ;  then  she  would  pray  in  an 
agony  of  hope  and  desire  that  God  would 
restore  his  reason,  if  only  long  enough  for 
them  to  receive  his  farewell.  But  that  mo- 
ment never  came.  And  as  she  looked  upon 
him  rigid  in  death  she  would  moan,  "  O,  if 
he  had  only  known  me  before  he  died  !  " 

It  was  then  that  all  the  hei-oic  in  the 
young  girl's  nature  was  called  into  action, 
as  she  was  obliged  to  turn  from  the  death- 
bed of  her  brother  to  the  sick-bed  of  her 
.  father,  who  found  no  strength  in  his  creeds, 
neither  in  his  ascetic  life,  to  support  him 
under  this  last  blow.  Constance,  in  the 
great  fear  that  he  too  might  be  taken  from 
her,  and  she  be  left  alone  in  the  world,  for- 
got her  own  sorrow  to  minister  to  him,  and 
lure  him  back  to  life.  Not  until  she  found 
her  father  once  more  in  his  accustomed 
health  did  she  pause  to  look  on  the  utter 
desolation  of  her  heart.  There  was  in  her 
nature  great  power  ami  strength  of  endur- 
ance, yet  deep  abysses  of  sadness,  and  keen 
susceptibilities  of  suffering.  If  no  slonns 
had  passed  over  her,  the  ibrce  of  her  char- 
acter would  never  have  been  tested,  and 
she  might  have  lived  in  ignorance  of  her 
own  heroic  fortitude.  Nevertheless,  these 
bitter  experiences  left  a  shadow  on  her  life 


that  time  and  after  happiness  never  entirely 
effaced. 

To  Mr.  Wilbrcham  the  loss  of  this  son, 
his  pride  and  hope  for  the  future,  was  un- 
doubtedly the  deepest  sorrow  of  his  life; 
but  it  was  a  sorrow  that  softened  him.  He 
came  out  of  his  affliction  more  charitable, 
more  gentle,  and  more  companionable. 
This  was  indeed  a  blessing  to  Constance; 
the  tendrils  of  her  young  life,  which  had 
been  so  rudely  torn  from  the  supporting 
tree,  must  needs  find  another  trunk  around 
which  to  twine.  So  she  became  to  her 
father,  now  no  longer  stern  and  silent,  but 
almost  childlike  in  his  dependent  clinging 
affection,  his  constant  companion,  his  only 
earthly  consolation,  his  last  and  sole  hope 
in  life. 

Poor  child!  there  were  hours  when  in  the 
sadness  of  her  heart  she  thought  of  her  shat- 
tered idols,  and  wept  in  bitterness  because 
they  could  not  be  again  restored  to  her :  but 
still  she  took  up  bravely  the  burden  of  life, 
and  never  acknowledged,  even  to  herself, 
how  weary  she  sometimes  grew  in  bearing 
it.  It  was,  then,  no  wonder,  that  on  this 
April  evening,  as  she  stood  gazing  into  the 
deepening  twilight,  her  lovely  face  bore  the 
marks  of  subdued  sorrow  and  sad,  sweet 
patience. 

Nearly  three  years  had  passed  since  her 
brother's  death,  and  neither  outwardly  nor 
inwardly  had  she  laid  aside  her  mourning, 
and  there  were  times  when  she  longed,  with 
an  inexpressible  longing,  once  more  to  hear 
his  voice,  and  to  see  his  happy  face,  as  she 
remembered  him  before  sorrow  had  dark- 
ened their  home ;  but  she  tried  resolutely  to 
stifle  the  yearning  cries  of  her  heart,  and 
to  look  steadily  forward  to  the  time  when 
she  should  see  him  again  radiant  with  im- 
mortality. 

"  How  papa  sleeps ! "  she  said  softly,  as 
she  turned  from  the  darkened  window  and 
paced  slowly  back  and  forth  in  the  gather- 
ing shadows.  "  Ah  me,  how  sad  I  am  to- 
night! I  wonder  what  new  trouble  is  com- 
ing upon  me.  I  feel  a  foreboding  I  cannot 
shake  off.  Or  am  I  getting  nervous  ?  or 
perhaps  I  study  too  much.  I  know  Dr.  Bur- 
nett would  say  I  had  taken  German  meta- 
physics in  too  large  doses.  Well,  it  may 
be  ;  but  I  like  study  ;  it  is  my  greatest  re- 
lief. This  stagnant  life  would  kill  me  in 
a  lit  lit;  while  if  I  did  not  work.  And  I 
believe  it  is  better  to  wear  out  than  to  rust 
out." 

Walking  languidly  to  the  piano,  she  sat 
down,  and,  touching  a  few  minor  chords,  she 
sang  in  a  low  voice,  Una  J-\>f//in,  from  // 
'I'rurntore.  And  as  she  repeated  the  words 

"  II  tuo  destine  tanto  somiglia  al  mio  " 

the  tears  started  to  her  eyes,  and,  covering 
her  lace  with  her  hands,  she  wept  silently. 


WOVEN   OF   MANY   THREADS. 


Suddenly,  on  the  evening  air,  from  the 
tower  of  Helmsfbrd  church,  sounded  the 
clamor  of  bells.  Mr.  Wilbreham,  startled 
from  his  sleep,  inquired  of  Constance  what 
it  meant. 

"  Why,  papa,"  she  said,  "  have  you  for- 
gotten ?  They  ring  to  welcome  Mr.  Van- 
deleur home." 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    HEIR    OF    HELMSFORD. 

fT>HE  morning  sun  shone  broadly  over 
J_  Helmsford  as  Richard  Vandeleur  walked 
on  the  highest  terrace,  lazily  smoking  his 
after-breakfast  cigar,  and  looking  with  an 
expression  half  of  dissatisfaction,  half  of 
pride,  on  the  broad  acres  before  him.  There 
was  much  in  his  appearance  that  denoted 
his  character.  The  broad,  full  forehead, 
and  square,  firm  chin,  showed  intellect  and 
power;  the  extreme  sweetness  of  the  blue 
eyes,  half  mirthful  and  half  sad,  gene- 
rosity and  kindliness;  the  straight  aristo- 
cratic nose,  pride,  and  contempt  of  the 
world's  opinion  ;  the  mouth,  which  was 
rather  sensual,  portrayed  all  the  weakness 
and  love  of  pleasure  that  made  him  a  Syba- 
rite in  his  tastes  and  habits  ;  his  form  was 
perfect,  from  his  elegant  shoulders  to  his 
slender  foot;  his  face  was  cleanly  shaven, 
save  a  heavy  brown  mustache,  slightly 
curved  upward  at  the  ends ;  his  hair  was 
several  shades  lighter,  and,  cut  close,  lay  in 
short  thick  waves,  except  around  the  fore- 
head, which  a  premature  baldness  had  left 
a  liltle  bare ;  the  lower  part  of  his  face  be- 
ing browned  by  exposure  to  foreign  suns  re- 
deemed his  complexion  from  a  whiteness 
almost  effeminate. 

There  was  a  sort  of  lazy  grace  in  his  man- 
ner, a  well-bred  ease  that  marked  him  at 
once  as  a  man  of  fashion  as  well  as  a  per- 
son of  wealth  and  leisure.  His  character 
was  one  of  those  strange  anomalous  com- 
binationsvof  good  and  evil,  — -  a  sensuous  na- 
ture, alive  to  beauty  in  every  form ;  selfish 
and  indolent,  yet  brave  and  generous  ;  self- 
ish if  anything  interfered  with  his  self-grat- 
ification ;  generous,  perhaps,  because  it  cost 
him  no  self-sacrifice  ;  brave,  because  it  was 
a  natural  inheritance  of  the  Vandeleurs.  A 
keen,  brilliant  wit,  that  saw  through  the  sub- 
terfuges of  life,  and  held  up  hypocrisy  and 
deceit  to  severe  and  withering  scorn.  What 
he  affected  to  despise  in  men  was  the  cow- 
ardice that  made  them  fear  to  meet  the  con- 
sequences of  their  own  acts,  and  a  cringing 
subserviency  to  the  opinion  of  the  world. 

In  his  life  he  had  accomplished  but  little, 
and  denied  himself  but  little.  He  had 
seized  the  cups  of  pleasure  as  they  were 


presented  to  him,  drained  them  to  the  dregs, 
and  flung  them  away,  weary  and  disgusted, 
because  he  found  no  sweetness  in  them. 
He  had  graduated  from  Cambridge  with 
some  honor,  because,  with  good  natural 
abilities  and  a  brilliant  and  decisive  in- 
tellect, he  had  found  study  but  little  labor. 
With  much  wealth  at  his  command,  an 
unstained  name,  a  noble  person,  and  agree- 
able, winning  manners,  not  a  restraint  on 
his  life,  master  of  himself  and  his  for- 
tune, he  was  welcome  everywhere.  Pride, 
and  perhaps  the  latent  good  in  him,  had  pro- 
vented  him  from  becoming  a  thorough  profli- 
gate, yet  he  had  sullied  the  whiteness  of  his 
soul  in  more  than  one  scene  of  debauchery, 
and  he  had  known  the  worst  of  life  in  every 
land,  as  well  as  the  best;  and  perhaps  in 
his  secret  sonl  was  the  memory  of  deeds  that 
would  not  bear  the  closest  scrutiny  of  his 
fellow-men,  and  even  appeared  ugly  to  his 
own  regard.  Yet  before  the  world  Richard 
Vandeleur,  at  thirty,  bore  an  irreproachable 
name. 

There  was  much  in  the  man,  that,  if  cir- 
cumstances had  called  it  forth,  might  have 
made  him  great  and  good.  If  he  had  been 
poor,  ambition  would  have  spurred  him  on 
to  strenuous  efforts  for  a  name  and  position ; 
but  what  need  was  there  of  exertion,  when 
birth  and  wealth  had  placed  him  on  a  high- 
er pedestal  than  poor  toiling  genius  ever  at- 
tains? One  other  thing  might  have  been 
the  salvation  of  his  life,  —  it  in  his  earlier 
manhood  he  had  found  the  true,  strong  love 
of  a  noble  woman,  his  equal  in  birth  and 
education,  who  would  have  encouraged  him 
to  loftier  aspirations  and  higher  deeds,  who 
would  have  elevated  him  by  her  affection, 
and  taught  him  the  purity  and  holiness  of 
love  ;  but  such  a  saving  angel  never  crossed 
his  path,  or,  if  so,  he  had  never  understood 
her.  He  had  been  inveigled  by  aspiring 
mammas  into  tame  flirtations  with  insipid 
girls,  and  had  been  the  principal  actor  in 
not  a  few  intrigues  with  married  women, 
and  yet  he  had  come  out  of  the  engagement 
unwounded,  but  with  a  deep  disgust  for  the 
general  frailty  of  the  sex  ;  for,  like  the  rest  of 
generous  mankind,  he  expected  to  find  in 
the  weaker  vessel  wine  of  strength  enough 
for  both,  and  because  he  failed  to  do  so, 
he  condemned  all  for  the  faults  of  a  few, 
and  had  decided  many  times,  if  it  were 
not  for  perpetuating  the  name,  never  to 
marry. 

As  he  sauntered  back  and  forth  on  the 
terrace  this  bright  morning,  one  would  nev- 
er have  imagined,  from  his  passive  face  and 
listless  manner,  how  important  and  varied 
were  the  thoughts  that  passed  through  his 
mind.  First  came  the  far-off  memories  of 
his  childish  days ;  his  father,  always  sad, 
but  kind ;  his  grief  and  loneliness  when 
death  took  him  away;  his  studies  at  the 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


rectory,    under  Mr.   Wilbreham,   who   had 
been  a  second  father  to  him;  his  college  days 


to  Hehnsfbrd,  the  spirits  of  the  Vandelcurs 
would  haunt  me  through  all  eternity  with 


their  never-ceasing  reproaches." 

He  was  interrupted  in  his  cogitations  by 


of  grand  opportunities,  from  which  he  had 
gathered    so    few    results ;     then    his    eight 

years  of  wandering  in  foreign  lands;  his  |  the  appearance  of  his  steward,  with  a  pack- 
first  enthusiastic  delight  with  the  gayety  of|  age  of  papers  and  a  portentous-looking  book 
Paris ;  his  deep  draughts  of  pleasure,  fbl-  •  under  his  arm. 


lowed  by  satiety  and  disgust ;  his  quieter 
wanderings  through  Germany  and  Swit/er- 


Good  morning,  Mr.  Vandeleur,"  he  said, 
taking  off  his  hat  and  making  a  low  bow. 


land;  the  glory  of  the  castled  cities  ;    the    "  I  'in  on  my  way  to  the  Hall  to  see  if  you 


legends  of  the  lovely  Rhine ;  the  wild  moun- 
tains, cloud-capped;  the  dashing  cataracts, 
and  the  murmuring  forests,  that  filled  his  soul 
with  deep  and  pure  delight.  Then  iiis  love 
for  Italy,  the  classic  mourner  who  folds  her 
weeds  about  her  and  sits  apart  from  the 
world.  There  his  heart  had  thrilled  with 
his  first  deep  experience,  as  fragrant  as 
the  wild  brier,  as  rich  and  sweet  as  the  blood 


will  have  the  goodness  to  coimnence  looking 
over  the  books  as  scon  as  possible,  they  have 
been  running  so  long." 

"  O,  never  mind  the  books  !  "  interrupted 
Mr.  Yandeleur.  "  They  have  done  with- 
out me  for  eight  years,  and  I  think  a  few 
days  won't  make  much  difference.  I  dare 
say  they  are  all  right.  You  have  kept  every- 
thing in  good  order,  and,  as  far  as  I  can 


of  the  purple  grape.     There  his  first  noble  |  judge,  the  whole  estate  is  in  a  flourishing 


and  enthusiastic  desire  for  fame  and  glory, 
touching  every  pulse  of  his  life,  and  throb- 
bing in  every  vein,  brought  to  birth  in 
his  young  heart  the  ardent  longing  to  do 
something  for  the  freedom  of  Italy.  Then 
was  tha  turning-point  in  his  existence.  If 
a  noble  soul  had  been  near  him  to  have, 
given  impetus  to  his  aspirations,  he  might 
have  done  something  for  his  fellow-men  ;  but 
as  it  was,  a  demon  in  the  form  of  a  friend 
urged  him  to  a  fatal  mistake,  that  left  its 
blight  on  his  whole  life. 

Italy  was  no  longer  to  him  the  pure  and 
classic  mourner  for  whom  he  longed  to  give 
his  heart's  blood,  bit  in  the  secrecy  of  his 
soul  almost  accursed  from  being  the  scene  of 
his  first  crime.  Then  he  fled  to  Spain,  with 
its  reckless  debauchery,  dark,  lovely  eyes, 
bull-fights,  and  duels ;  to  Greece,  with  its 
ruins  and  lost  hopes  ;  and  then  to  the  sol- 
emn East,  with  the  shadows  of  ages  hanging 
over  it.  From  the  shores  of  the  Nile  to  the 
sepulchre  of  Christ  he  wandered,  weary 
and  restless,  seeking  for  forgetfulness  and 
happiness,  but  finding  neither.  O,  how 
many  hours  there  were,  in  the  lull  of  pas- 
sion, in  the  midst  of  brilliant  vice,  when  his 
spirit  longed  to  go  back  again  to  drink  of 
the  pure,  cool  fountain  of  youth !  and  yet, 
lured  o:a  by  some  fatal  spell,  for  eight 
years  he  had  wandered  and  sinned;  and 
now,  in  reviewing  it  all,  there  was  noth- 
ing from  which  he  could  glean  one  thrill  of 
joy  or  satisfaction.  He  only  felt  now  that 
it  was  all  finished,  th:it  the  best  part  of 
his  life  was  gone,  and  Time  had  found  him 
deeply  his  debtor.  He  must  decide  upon 
some  future  course.  He  must  give  up  his 
old  Bohemian  life,  so  careless  and  free, 
marry  some  good,  patient  English  girl,  and 
settle  down  into  a  respectable  country  gen- 
tleman. "  Bah  !  "  he  thought,  with  a  feel- 
ing of  disgust,  "  what  a  life!  I  shall  rust 
out  in  no  time.  But  I  can't  live  always, 
and  if  I  should  die  without  leaving  an  heir 


condition.  I  have  no  time  now.  I  must  go  at 
once  and  pay  my  respects  to  Mr.  Wilbreham. 
Does  he  still  continue  in  good  health  V  " 

"  In  tolerably  good  health,  I  believe,  sir, 
though  a  little  feeble.  He 's  never  been 
quite  the  same  since  his  son's  death." 

The  steward  waited  for  a  reply ;  but  as 
Mr.  Vandeleur  seemed  lost  in  thought  he 
turned  away  with  a  sigh  of  disappointment, 
for  he  dearly  liked  a  gossip,  and  he  felt  he 
had  missed  a  chance.  As  he  walked  slow- 
ly away,  Mr.  Vandeleur  called  after  him, 
'•  I  will  look  over  the  books  some  other  day, 
when  I  feel  more  up  to  it." 

Then  he  added  mentally,  as  he  went 
towards  the  Hall,  "  What  a  bore  business  is  ! 
I  hate  the  sight  of  an  account-book.  Yes,  1 
must  go  directly  to  the  rectory.  My  little 
pet,  Constance,  must  be  a  young  lady  now; 
I  wonder  what  she  is  like.  She  was  a  love- 
ly child.  I  dare  say  she  is  engaged  to  some 
country  curate  before  this  ;  if  not.  she  is  no 
longer  my  little  pet,  but  a  dignified  young 
lady,  visiting  charity  schools,  making  flan- 
nel frocks  for  the  poor,  and  tea  for  her 


father,    with 
what  a  life  ! ' 


equal   patience.     Poor    girl, 


CHAPTER  IV. 


HOW   CARELESSLY   WE    GO    TO     MEET    OUIl 


niCIIARD  VANDELEUR  sat  in  the 
JL\  rectory  parlor,  awaiting  the  appear- 
ance of  Mr.  Wilbreham. 

••How  familiar  everything  looks!"  he 
thought,  as  he  glanced  around  the1  well-or- 
dered room,  so  elegant,  so  refined,  and  so 
tranquil.  ''The  same  subduing  influence 
steals  over  me  that  always  did  when  I  came 
here,  a  wild  boy,  to  con  my  lessons.  Can  it 
be  that  so  many  years  have  passed,  and  I 
only  am  changed  ?  No,  outwardly  all  is  the 


6 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


same,  but  where  is  the  gentlewoman  who 
was  all  the  mother  I  ever  knew,  the  golden- 
haired  little  girl,  and  the  bright,  active  boy  ? 
Gone,  all  gone,  one  after  another;  and  yet 
her  chair  stands  there  in  the  very  place  it 
used  to,  and  there  is  the  stool  the  child  so 
often  knelt  upon  to  lay  her  lovely  head  in 
her  mother's  lap.  And  Mr.  Wilbreham's 
chair  in  the  other  corner,  that  we  so  often 
hung  over,  our  eager,  boyish  heads  pressed 
together  above  some  book  he  held  in  his 
hand,  which  amused  while  it  instructed  us." 

His  revery  was  interrupted  by  the  slight 
rustling  of  a  dress,  and  through  the  open 
garden  door  there  entered  a  girl  so  lovely 
that  his  astonishment  almost  startled  him 
out  of  his  usual  well-bred  ease.  As  he  arose 
and  bowed,  she  came  calmly  forward,  with 
graceful  self-possession,  and  held  out  her 
hand  kindly,  as  to  an  old  friend. 

"  Who  can  this  lovely  creature  be  ?  "  he 
thought,  as  he  looked  at  her  with  a  troubled 
doubt  in  his  face. 

"  I  see  you  do  not  recognize  me,  Mr.  Van- 
deleur,"  she  said.  "  Can  it  be  you  have 
forgotten  your  troublesome  little  playmate  ?" 

"  Constance  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Miss 
Wilbreham !  Is  it  possible  ?  But  do  not 
think  me  forgetful  when  I  cannot  discern  in 
the  charming  young  lady  before  me  one 
trace  of  the  little  pet  I  left  eight  years  ago. 
I  had  not  thought,  I  avow,  that  while  time 
had  been  buffeting  and  damaging  me,  he  had 
been  more  generous  to  you,  and  had  un- 
folded my  little  rosebud  into  the  fairest 
flower  that  ever  bloomed." 

"  Pray  do  not  flatter  me,  Mr.  Vandeleur ; 
you  knew  me  too  long  ago  to  resort  now  to 
the  usages  of  fashionable  society.  Eight 
years  must  have  changed  us  all  in  some  re- 
spects, or  else  time  were  useless.  Do  be 
seated.  Papa  will  be  with  us  directly.  I 
expect  him  every  moment  from  the  vestry." 

Her  manner  was  so  calm,  so  quiet,  so  self- 
possessed,  and  yet,  withal,  so  frank  and 
sweet,  that  she  completely  disarmed  the  man 
of  fashion.  He  knew  at  once  all  his  well- 
turned  compliments  and  polite  phrases 
•would  be  wasted  on  the  girl  before  him,  in 
•whose  face  he  saw  an  intelligence  and  sin- 
cerity too  exalted  for  the  banter  of  ordinary 
society.  "  Can  it  be  possible,"  he  thought, 
"that  this  elegant  young  lady  is  the  little 
child  I  held  on  my  knee,  and  romped  and 
played  with,  only  a  few  years  ago?  Every- 
thing about  her  is  perfect,  from  the  waves 
of  her  glossy  hair  to  the  folds  of  her  white 
dress  ;  from  the  belt  that  encircles  her 
waist  to  the  toe  of  her  slipper  ;  so  refined, 
so  pure,  so  simple." 

While  regarding  her  a  new  and  strange 
emotion  swept  over  him,  a  feeling  half  of 
awe  and  half  of  self-abasement ;  a  holy  rever- 
ence, such  as  one  might  experience  in  the 
presence  of  an  angel.  And  for  the  first 


time  in  his  life  he  felt  that  he  could  kneel 
to  the  purity  of  a  woman,  the  woman  who 
was  henceforth  to  change  his  whole  des- 
tiny. 

This  new  sensation  troubled  and  entan- 
gled his  ever-available  wit,  so  that  he  found 
!  it  difficult  to  frame  the  commonplaces  he 
'  always  gave  utterance  to  with  such  facil- 
ity. 

He  was  glad  when  Mr.  Wilbreham  en- 
tered, and  the  conversation  changed  the 
current  of  his  thoughts. 

The  voice  of  the  poor  old  rector  was 
broken  with  emotion,  and  he  could  scarcely 
restrain  his  tears  when  he  saw  before  him, 
in  the  full  flush  of  health  and  manhood,  one 
who  had  been  the  constant  companion  of 
his  dead  son,  who  had  shared  with  him 
in  all  his  boyish  sports  and  more  mature 
studies.  Their  young  heads  had  bent  over 
the  same  books,  their  fresh  voices  had  min- 
gled in  the  same  free  games.  For  three 
years  that  beloved  voice  had  been  silent. 
The  brilliant  intellect,  the  strong,  vigor- 
ous frame,  had  perished  at  a  stroke,  while 
this  man,  who  had  wandered  far  and 
wide,  and  encountered  danger  in  every 
form,  stood  before  him,  a  strong  contrast 
to  his  own  blighted  hopes. 

Richard  Vandeleur  felt  a  choking  sen- 
sation in  his  throat,  and  a  dimness  of  vision, 
as  he  witnessed  the  grief  of  his  old  tutor, 
and  the  heroic  efforts  of  Constance  to  con- 
trol herself  and  soothe  the  agitation  of  her 
father. 

After  a  few  moments  Mr.  Wilbreham  re- 
gained his  calmness,  and  spoke  witli  resig- 
nation of  his  deep  affliction.  Then  the  con- 
versation turned  on  indifferent  subjects,  and 
Mr.  Vandeleur,  more  at  his  ease,  gave  charm- 
ing accounts  of  his  travels,  of  foreign  life 
and  manners,  of  the  people  he  had  met, 
the  books  he  had  read,  the  works  of  art  he 
had  seen,  of  his  wanderings  in  the  East;  of 
his  half-Arab  life  in  Arabia,  his  half-gypsy 
life  in  Spain ;  and  of  his  more  refined  asso- 
ciations with  the  most  brilliant  cities  in  Eu- 
rope ;  —  to  all  of  which  Constance  listened 
with  pleased  interest,  and  he  was  not  a  little 
surprised  at  the  knowledge  her  questions 
and  remarks  evinced.  He  saw  at  once  'she 
had  read  and  studied  much,  and  that  her 
mind  was  as  perfect  as  her  person. 

When  the  conversation  turned  upon  mu- 
sic, the  girl  became  enthusiastic  ;  her  cheeks 
flushed,  and  her  eyes  beamed  with  interest, 
as  they  discussed  their  favorite  composers. 

He  asked  her  to  sing.  With  modest  readi- 
ness she  seated  herself  at  the  piano,  and 
sang  with  exquisite  taste  a  difficult  Italian 
composition. 

"You  understand  Italian,"  lie  said  when 
she  had  finished.  "  You  pronounce  it  with 
the  purity  of  a  native." 

"  O  no !  "    she  replied,  smiling ;  "  but  I 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


love  the  divine  language  of  Dante,  and  I 
try  to  mutilate  it  as  little  as  possible." 

"  Constance  has  had  a  French  governess 
who  lived  many  years  in  Italy,  and  sin- 
speaks  both  French  and  It-dian  with  flu- 
ency," observed  Mr.  Wilbreham. 

After  a  little  more  desultory  conversa- 
tion, and  an  invitation  to  dinner,  which 
he  accepted  for  the  next  day,  Mr.  Van- 
deleur  took  his  leave,  and  walked  slowly 
towards  the  Hall  in  deep  thought;  and 
his  thoughts  put  into  words  would  read 
like  this :  — 

"Is  it  possible  that  I,  who  have  seen  and 
known  the  most  celebrated  beauties  of  Eu- 
rope, and  have  not  been  troubled  with  any 
twinges  of  the  tender  passion,  should,  after 
one  hour's  interview,  be  in  love  with  this 
girl  whom  I  have  carried  in  my  arms  a 
baby  ?  No,  no ;  it  is  too  ridiculous,  and  yet 
I  cannot  drive  her  from  my  thoughts.  How 
lovely  she  is !  A  Carlo  Dolce  type  of  beau- 
ty. By  Jove !  she  is  as  superior  to  any  wo- 
man I  have  ever  met,  as  moonlight  is  to  a 
glow-worm.  There  is  one  thing  certain,  if  I 
can  win  her,  she  shall  be  my  wile  before  the 
next  harvest  moon."  And  then  a  hateful 
memory  wrenched  his  heart,  and  his  face 
grew  white  for  a  moment.  "  But  what  have 
I  to  give  worthy  of  that  pure  young  life  V 
Nothing !  nothing  but  dregs !  My  God ! 
how  she  would  shrink  from  me  if  she  could 
read  the  blurred  page  of  my  past !  I  won- 
der if  it  is  ever  possible  to  wipe  out  all  and 
begin  anew  ?  Yes,  with  her  I  think  I  might 
renew  something  of  the  purity  of  my  youth. 
O,  if  I  were  only  twenty  !  Why,  I  was  an 
angel  then,  compared  to  what  I  am  now.  It 
is  strange,  but  I  believe  for  the  first  time  I 
see  myself  in  my  true  colors,  and  they  are 
anything  but  lovely.  But  I  will  never  de- 
ceive her.  No,  I  will  tell  her  all,  and  then, 
if  she  will  marry  me,  she  shall  be  my  wife 
before  the  next  harvest  moon." 

And  with  this  resolution  his  step  grew 
lighter,  and  he  walked  almost  briskly  up  the 
broad  avenue  to  the  Hall,  thinking,  as  he 
went,  of  the  improvements  he  should  make 
when  Constance  became  its  mistress. 

It  was  very  strange  how  short  a  time  had 
reconciled  him  to  living;  at  Helmsford. 


CHAPTER  V. 

ONLY  A   DEAD   LEAF. 

NEARLY  five  months  had  passed  since 
Richard  Vandeleur's  return  to  Helms- 
ford.  It  was  the  evening  of  an  excessively 
hot  day  in  August,  and  he  and  Constance 
were  slowly  walking  back  and  forth  on  the 
lawn  before  the  open  door,  engaged  in 
earnest  conversation.  Mr.  Wilbreham  was 


sleeping  as  usual  at  that  hour  and  Ma'Iame 
Landel,  governess,  friend,  and  companion  to 
Constance,  was  sitting  near  the  open  win- 
dow, a  book  in  her  hand,  but  her  eyes  fixed 
meditatively  on  tlie  distant  clouds. 

She  was  a  quiet  little  woman,  neatly 
dressed  in  black,  with  bands  of  soft  gray 
hair  simply  arranged  under  a  plain  cap. 
The  childless  widow  of  a  French  ollicer,  sin; 
had  known  much  sorrow,  and  had  passed 
the  most  of  her  life  in  journeying  from  one 
country  to  another,  never  knowing  a  home, 
and  scarcely  remaining  long  enough  in  one 
place  to  form  those  friendly  ties  which  are 
so  dear,  and  withal  so  necessary  to  a  wo- 
man's happiness;  yet  her  placid  brow  and 
patient  face  bore  scarcely  a  sign  of  her  sad 
experience.  For  nearly  eight  years  she  had 
found  a  congenial  home  in  Mr.  Wilbreham's 
family,  and  an  intelligent  and  affectionate 
pupil  in  Constance. 

The  day  had  been  sultry  and  oppressive, 
but, now,  refreshed  by  the  dew  and  the  soft 
breeze,  the  languid  flowers  raised  their  bent 
heads,  and  gave  forth  their  delicious  odor 
with  unsparing  bounty.  The  west  was  all 
aglow  with  the  gorgeous  evening  drapery  of 
the  sun  ;  and  the  full  yellow  moon  rose  se- 
renely above  the  row  of  tall  poplars  that  di- 
vided the  rectory  garden  from  the  church- 
yard, and  which  Constance  always  likened 
unto  grim  sentinels  standing  between  the 
living  and  the  dead.  It  was  one  of  those 
hours  when  all  nature,  and  even  the  unquiet 
heart  of  man,  is  lulled  into  a  dreamy  pence  ; 
and  Constance,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Mr. 
Vandeleur,  and  listening  to  his  words  of 
tender  devotion,  felt  that,  at  last,  her  rest- 
less heart  had  found  repose  in  his  love. 
Her  sweet  mouth  had  lost  its  curves  of  sor- 
row, the  limpid  eyes  their  dreamy  abstract- 
ed expression ;  and  now  her  whole  face 
beamed  with  an  almost  childish  gladness 
as  she  listened  to  his  plans  for  their  fu- 
ture. His  tenderness  and  devotion  filled 
the  void  in  her  life  that  had  been  left  deso- 
late by  the  death  of  those  she  loved,  and  al- 
ready her  fond  young  heart  clung  to  him 
with  that  blind  trust, that  unsuspecting  and 
unquestioning  confidence,  which  is  a  wo- 
man's rarest  charm.  Her  pure  and  stainless 
nature  knew  nothing  of  the  world,  and  she 
supposed  the  past  life  of  the  man  she  lined 
to  have  been  as  true  and  irreproachable  as 
the  present  seemed,  under  her  ennobling 
influence. 

They  were  to<be  married  in  September, 
much  to  Mr.  Wilbreham's  satisfaction,  who, 
knowing  himself  to  be  failing  daily,  desired 
to  see  his  daughter  happily  married  before 
his  departure. 

If  he  had  been  permitted  to  select  a  hus- 
band for  his  daughter  from  all  young  Eng- 
land, Richard  Vandeleur  would  have  been 
his  choice  before  any  other.  As  his  tutor 


WO  VEX   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


and  guardian,  he  always  felt  for  the  way- 
ward boy  something  of  the  love  of  a  father  ; 
and  now  that  he  was  to  be  the  husband  of 
his  child,  he  outwardly  gave  him  the  place 
of  his  dead  son  in  his  affection.  Every  cir- 
cumstance in  this  case  seemed  to  combine 
to  render  the  course  of  true  love  smooth,  and 
perhaps  thcie  was  never  a  brighter  prospect 
for  happiness  than  that  of  the  lovely  girl 
who  leaned  so  trustingly  on  the  arm  of  the 
man  who  she  thought  was  to  share  her  fu- 
ture life. 

And  Richard  Vandeleur,  —  was  he  hap- 
py ?  Yes,  at  times  supremely  happy.  Yet 
there  were  moments  in  the  stH  night,  in 
the  early  dawn,  when  a  hateful  memory 
tugged  at  his  heart,  until  his  cheek  grew 
white,  and  the  dew  of  agony  gathered  on 
his  brow. 

"Tell  her!  tell  her  all!"  pleaded  the 
voice  of  conscience,  with  urgent  importunity. 
Then  he  would  rise  up  exhausted  with 
the  struggle,  but  resolved  to  tell  her*  all 
his  terrible  history,  and  so  test  her  love  for 
him. 

"  If  she  loves  me  truly  and  unselfishly," 
he  would  reason,  "  she  will  forgive  the  follies 
of  the  past,  and  trust  me  for  the  future. 
Yes,  it  will  be  well  to  test  her  love ;  if  her 
affection  is  sincere,  she  will  Jove  me  none 
the  less,  but  will  rather  respect  me  more, 
that  I  have  had  the  moral  courage  to  con- 
fess all  to  her." 

His  resolution  now  was  as  strong  as  that 
•which  he  had  made  the  first  day  of  their 
acquaintance.  Yet,  when  once  in  her  pres- 
ence, his  good  resolves  would  vanish,  and 
he  would  say  inwardly,  '•  No,  no,  I  cannot. 
I  love  her,  O  my  God !  how  I  love  her ! 
The  fear  of  losing  her  maddens  me,  and  I 
prefer  any  concealment,  rather  than  to  in- 
cur her  contempt.  If  I  tell  her,  she  may  de- 
spise and  hate  me.  No,  I  cannot  lose  her ; 
her  love  is  the  only  pure  affection  I  have 
ever  known,  and  I  must  keep  it,  even  at  the 
price  of  concealment." 

Yet  this  evening,  stronger  than  ever,  the 
importunate  voice  was  heard,  even  above 
the  clear  tones  of  Constance,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  her  presence  his  brow  dark- 
ened with  sombre  thoughts. 

"  Why  are  you  so  serious,  Richard  ?  "  she 
said,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  Are  you  regret- 
ting that  you  shall  lose  your  liberty  so 
soon  ?  " 

"  No,  my  darling,"  he  replied  with  deep 
tenderness.  "  I  am  only  anxious  '  to  wear 
your  easy  chains  ;  but  I  was  thinking,"  he 
cried,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  passionate 
emotion,  —  "  I  was  thinking  if  there  was  any 
circumstance,  any  possibility,  that  could  sep- 
arate us." 

"  Separate  us  !  What  can  you  mean  ?  " 
she  said,  with  trembling  anxiety.  "  No, 
surely  nothing,  unless  God  should  take  one 


of  us  ;  and  you  know,  dear,   we  must  not 
question  his  will." 

They  walked  on  in  silence,  down  a  shady 
path,  until  they  reached  a  low  wall  that  di- 
vided Helmsford  Park  from  the  rectory  gar- 
den. There  they  paused  ;  and  Mr.  Vande- 
leur, drawing  Constance  to  his  side,  and  look- 
ing earnestly  into  the  lovely  eyes  raised  to 
his,  said  in  a  strangely  troubled  voice,  "  And 
nothing  could  tear  you  from  me,  my  sweet 
darling  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  dear,  but  death,  or"  —  she  hesi- 
tated —  "  or  the  knowledge  of  some  crime." 
His  cheek  whitened  as  though  a  spasm  of 
mortal  agony  had  passed  over  him. 

"  But  why  talk  of  this  ?  Are  you  too 
happy,  that  you  must  cloud  our  joy  by  fan- 
cying impossibilities '?  As  long  as  we  love 
each  other,  nothing  can  part  us.  But  I 
have  been  thinking,  too,"  she  said  in  a 
lighter  voice ;  "  I  have  been  thinking  how 
strange  you  never  loved  before.  In  all  the 
countries  you  have  visited,  among  all  the 
lovely  women  you  have  me't,  it  is  strange, 
certainly,  you  have  never  found  one  whom 
you  loved.  Richard,  are  you  sure,"  she 
said,  earnestly  looking  him  in  the  face,  — 
"  are  you  sure  you  have  never  loved  before?  " 

Then  a  memory  rushed  upon  him,  a  mem- 
ory as  fragrant  as  the  wild  brier,  as  sweet 
as  the  blood  of  the  purple  grape  ;  a  pair  of 
dreamy,  dark  eyes,  filled  with  the  passion 
of  Southern  climes,  flashed  fire  through 
every  vein,  and  a  voice  of  exquisite  tone 
startled  him  with  its  melody.  "  No,  no," 
he  thought  with  a  shudder.  "  That  was  not 
love,  it  was  passion.  I  have  never  loved  be- 
fore." And  he  replied,  with  a  voice  as 
calm  as  though  no  mighty  emotion  had 
swept  over  his  soul :  — 

"  No,  Constance,  I  have  never  loved  be- 
fore ;  you  are  my  first,  as  you  will  be  my 
only  love.  The  human  heart  is  capable  of 
such  an  affection  but  once  ;  and  remember," 
he  continued,  with  a  solemnity  she  thought  of 
long  after,  —  "remember,  whatever  may  hap- 
pen, I  have  loved  only  you.  My  life  until 
now  has  been  useless,  worse  than  useless. 
I  have  wasted  my  best  years,  and  lived  only 
for  myself.  You  have  awakened  in  me  new 
desires  and  new  hopes ;  and  only  with  you 
and  through  your  love  can  they  be  fulfilled. 
You  are  my  redemption;  through  you  I 
shall  be  saved." 

"  Hush !  "  she  said  softly,  laying  her  hand 
on  his  lips.  "  You  overestimate  my  influ- 
ence. I  am  but  a  poor  simple  child,  whom 
you  are  good  enough  to  love.  But  it'  my 
life's  devotion  can  render  you  happy,  it 
shall  be  yours." 

"  Thank  God  !  "  he  exclaimed,  with  pas- 
sionate fervor,  —  "  thank  God  for  such  a 
treasure !  I  will  try  to  be  worthy  of  this 
priceless  gift.  — The  dew  is  falling,"  he  said, 
pressing  his  lips  to  her  damp  hah-,  "  and 


WOVEN   OF   MANY  THREADS. 


you  may  take  cold  after  the  excessive  heat 
of  the  day  ;  let  us  go  in."  And  drawing  her 
arm  through  his,  they  passed  out  of  the 
shadow  into  the  moonlight ;  but  a  gloom  had 
fallen  upon  his  heart  which  he  could  not 
shake  off. 

"  After  all,"  he  thought,  "  why  should  she 
know  anything  of  my  past  ?  It  does  not 
concern  my  future.  It  would  only  ease  my 
conscience  to  make  her  suffer,  and  it  could 
do  no  good.  It  i.s  better  that  I  did  not  tell 
her.  Why  should  she  know  ?  Yes,  it  is 
better  as  it  is." 

A  few  weeks  later,  a  wet,  windy  day  in 
September,  Constance  stood  apparently  look- 
ing from  her  window  toward  Helmsford,  but 
actually  lost  in  deep  thought.  The  next 
morning  she  was  to  commence  her  new  life. 
They  were  to  be  married  at  an  early  hour 
in  Helmsford  church,  and  then  leave  direct- 
ly for  a  short  stay  in  London  and  Paris, 
after  which  they  were  to  return,  and  settle 
at  Helmsford.  About  her  usually  orderly 
room  were  strewn  the  indications  of  an  in- 
tended journey  Open  boxes  and  travelling- 
bags,  dresses,  bonnets,  boots,  gloves,  laces, 
ribbons,  in  fact,  enough  to  stock  a  mod- 
erate millinery  establishment.  Conspicuous 
among  them  was  the  rich  white  silk  dress 
and  delicate  veil,  which  had  just  arrived  from 
London.  She  had  tried  them  on,  and  laid 
them  away  with  a  sort  of  dreary  dejection  the 
occasion  little  warranted,  and  which,  in  spita 
of  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  she  could 
not  overcome. 

Madame  Landel  had  left  her,  in  the  midst 
of  her  packing,  to  give  some  orders  below; 
and  almost  before  she  was  aware  of  it,  Con- 
stance found  herself  gazing  from  the  win- 
dow, as  she  had  done  for  the  twentieth  time 
that  day,  sad  and  oppressed,  she  could  not 
tell  why.  Was  it  the  weather?  A  dull, 
gray  mist  hung  over  everything;  a  slow 
steady  rain  fell  monotonously.  A  few  dead 
leaves  swirled  and  turned  in  the  wind  until 
they  lodged  in  the  little  pools  formed  in  the 
garden  path.  She  noted  all  this,  as  she  re- 
membered long  after. 

Turning  from  the  window  with  a  sigh,  "  I 
suppose  every  one  is  a  little  sad  the  day  be- 
fore marriage.  After  all,  it  is  a  very  serious 
thing  to  change  one's  life  so  completely ;  but 
I  must  not  waste  any  more  time,  when  there 
is  so  much  to  arrange,  and  Richard  will  be 
here  soon." 

She  walked  around  the  room,  taking  up 
in  an  aimless  sort  of  way  different  articles, 
and  laying  them  down  without  any  attempt 
to  put  them  in  their  respective  places.  A 
book  on  the  table  attracted  her  attention. 
"  This,"  she  said,  "  must  be  put  into  the  box 
to  be  sent  to  the  Hall." 

It  was  a  large  herbarium  filled  with  beau- 
tifully pressed  flowers,  which  Mr.  Vande- 
leur  had  gathered  in  his  wanderings,  and 
2 


he  had  brought  it  for  her  to  look  at.  Taking 
it  in  her  hand,  some  sudden  feeling  prompt- 
ed her  to  glance  through  it  again.  Just  as 
she  was  doing  so,  she  fancied  she  heard  Mr. 
Vandeleur's  step  on  the  garden  walk.  Turn- 
ing hastily  to  the  window,  she  opened  it, 
that  she  might  see  if  he  was  entering  the 
door.  Suddenly  a  gust  of  wind  fluttered  the 
pages  of  the  book;  and  a  large,  beautiful 
leaf  that  had  been  imperfectly  fastened  with 
gum  was  carried  off'  by  the  breeze  cut  of 
the  window  beyond  her  reach.  She  made 
no  effort  to  recover  it,  but  stood  locking  at 
the  page  as  mute  and  motionless  as  though 
she  had  turned  into  stone  ;  for  on  the  place 
over  which  the  leaf  had  been  fas-tern  d  was 
written  in  Italian,  in  a  scarcely  legible 
hand :  — 

"  Gathered  in  the  Villa  Pamphili,  and  ar- 
ranged for  my  dear  husband. 

"  MOXA. 

"  ROME,  April  6th.  ' 

Only  a  dead  leaf  had  hidden  this  terrible 

secret. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Two  lives  fo  nearly  joined  in  one, 
So  rudely  rent  in  twain. 

A  HALF-HOUR  later  Madame  I.andel 
entered  the  room,  and  Constance  was 
still  standing  where  she  had  left  her,  —  a 
book  clasped  in  her  hand,  and  her  eyes, 
fixed  and  tearless,  gazing  straight  before  her 
into  the  dull,  leaden  sky. 

"  Mr.  Vandeleur  is  in  the  drawing-room, 
my  dear.  Go  down  to  him,  and  I  will  ring 
for  Jane  to  help  me  fin^b  your  packing." 

As  she  spoke  Constance  turned,  the  book 
fell  from  her  hand,  and  throwing  herself  on 
the  bosom  of  her  friend,  she  cried,  wiih  dry, 
choking  sobs,  "  It  is  all  over,  it  is  all  over ! 
I  shall  never  be  his  wife  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  my  child  ?  Are 
you  losing  your  senses  V  "  and  flie  looked 
with  puzzled  scrutiny  into  the  white,  rigid 
face  of  the  girl.  She  read  enough  there  to 
convince  her  that  some  terrible  calamity 
had  occurred,  and,  clasping  Constance  in 
her  arms,  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  Tell  me  all,  tell  me  all,  my  poor  child, 
and  let  me  try  to  comfort  you ;  but  do  not 
look  so,  you  will  break  my  heart ! " 

"  It  is  something  dreadful,  but  I  cannot 
tell  you  now,"  she  replied,  in  a  voice  of 
forced  calmness.  "  I  must  go  to  him.  Is 
papa  with  him  ?  " 

"  No,  your  papa  is  in  the  library.  Mr. 
Vandeleur  is  alone.  But,  my  child,  I  en- 
treat you  to  tell  me  what  has  happened." 

"1  cannot  now,  dear  madam;  indeed.  1 
cannot.  Later  I  will  tell  you  all ;  but  now* 
I  must  go  directly  to  him." 


10 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


She  stooped  and  picked  up  the  book,  and 
turned  to  leave  the  room.  When  she  reached 
the  door  she  looked  back  and  said,  in  a  calm 
and  far-off  voice,  "  Put  tny  bridal  dress  out 
of  sight,  I  shall  not  wear  it  to-morrow ;  and 
don't  do  any  more  packing.  I  shall  not 
leave  home." 

Then,  gently  closing  the  door,  she  went 
away,  leaving  Madame  Landel  half  stupefied 
with  astonishment. 

Mr.  Vandeleur  sat  before  the  drawing- 
room  fire,  awaiting  the  appearance  of  Con- 
stance. The  door  was  ajar,  and  he  heard 
the  rustle  of  her  dress  as  she  descended  the 
stairs.  Rising,  he  went  forward  to  meet 
her  with  extended  arms  and  a  smile  of  fond 
welcome ;  but  the  strange  expression  of  her 
face  arrested  his  steps,  and  his  arms  fell  mo- 
tionless. Never  in  all  his  after  life  did  he  for- 
get that  white,  sorrowful  face,  nor  the  stern, 
tearless  eyes  that  seemed  to  look  upon  him 
with  a  scrutiny  which  read  his  inmost  soul. 
He  knew  in  that  moment,  as  well  as  he  did 
an  hour  after,  that  his  sin  had  found  him 
out,  and  what  he  feared  had  come  upon 
him. 

Constance  closed  the  door  behind  her, 
and  turned  the  key ;  then,  approaching  him, 
she  opened  the  book  and  pointed  silently  to 
the  inscription. 

He  read  it ;  a  flush  of  crimson  spread 
over  his  face,  and  then  faded  away,  leaving 
him  as  pale  as  though  Death  had  fanned 
him  with  its  white  wing.  Sinking  into  a 
chair  he  gasped  for  breath,  pressfng  his 
hands  convulsively  to  his  eyes  ;  for,  even  in 
that  moment,  a  dark,  beautiful  face  rose 
before  him,  and  lips  of  childish  sweetness 
called  him  "  husband,"  with  the  bewitching 
accent  of  a  foreign  tongue. 

"  Speak,"  said  Constance,  in  an  imperial 
tone  of  injured  pride  and  innocence.  "  Tell 
me,  was  that  woman  your  wife  ?  " 

"  She  believed  herself  to  be,"  he  replied, 
in  scarcely  audible  tones. 

"  Believed  herself  to  be  !  I  do  not  un- 
derstand you.  Explain  quickly  1  there  is 
no  time  to  waste  in  enigmas." 

"  O  Constance,  forgive  me !  "  he  groaned, 
"  forgive  me !  I  have  deceived  you ;  I 
have  hidden  from  you  this  dark  page  of  my 
life,  and  now  fate  has  revealed  it." 

"  Can  it  be  possible,"  she  said,  coming 
nearer  to  him,  and  looking  into  his  face  with 
stern  sorrow,  —  "  can  it  be  possible  that  you 
—  Richard  Vandeleur  — •  have  won  my  love 
and  asked  me  to  be  your  wife,  if  you  are  al- 
ready married,  and  this  woman  still  lives  ?  " 

"  No,  Constance,  as  God  is  my  witness, 
she  was  not  my  wife  ;  but  she  believed  her- 
self to  be." 

"  Oh  !  "  she  gasped,  "  then  there  is  hidden 
a  still  darker  history  of  crime  ?  " 
i     "  Yes,  a  history  too  vile  for  your  pure 
soul  to  listen  to.    If  I  had  not  felt  it  to  be 


so,  I  should  not  have  waited  for  fate  to  re- 
veal it  ?  " 

"  O,  why,  why  have  you  deceived  me  ?  " 
she  moaned.  "  I  was  strong  enough  to  have 
heard  the  truth ;  but  tell  me  now,  tell  me 
all.  This  is  no  time  to  talk  conventionali- 
ties. I  alone  must  hear  this  story,  none 
other  but  me ;  and  I  alone  must  decide  on 
the  result." 

"  O  my  God  !  "  he  cried,  starting  up  and 
pacing  the  floor  almost  frantically,  "  I  can- 
not, I  cannot  confess  to  you  a  crime  that  I 
fear  will  separate  us  forever  !  " 

"  Look  at  me,"  she  said,  calmly  and  gen- 
tly. "I  am  young  and  a  woman;  my  bur- 
den will  be  heavy  to  bear,  and  I  must  soon 
bear  it  alone.  Then  have  pity  on  me 
and  spare  me  all  useless  agitation ;  for, 
indeed,  I  have  need  of  strength  and  tran- 
quillity." 

"  Poor,  poor  child,  so  young,  so  innocent, 
how  the  knowledge  of  this  will  shake  your 
faith  in  the  truth  of  humanity  !  but  I  will 
tell  you  all,  and  you  shall  be  my  judge.  I 
will  receive  my  sentence  from  your  lips, 
whatever  it  may  be,  without  a  murmur ;  but 
O  Constance,  I  beseech  you  to  be  merciful. 
Remember  how  young  I  was,  my  motherless 
childhood,  my  unrestrained  life,  and  my 
great  temptation.  These  are  the  only  ex- 
tenuating circumstances  I  have  to  offer. 
Listen,  and,  as  you  hope  for  mercy  from 
God,  be  also  merciful  to  me.'' 

He  took  her  cold  hand  in  his  and  led  her 
to  a  chair,  and  then,  standing  before  her, 
with  his  proud  head  bowed  as  one  already 
condemned,  and  his  voice  hoarse  and  broken 
with  emotion,  he  told  her  the  story  of  Mono. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE   STORY   OF   MONA. 

"FT  was  my  first  winter  in  Rome.  I  had 
JL  taken  an  apartment  in  an  old  palace, 
with  my  friend,  the  Count  de  Villiers.  I 
had  met  him  in  Paris  the  year  before,  and 
we  had  formed  one  of  those  friendships 
which  so  often  exist  between  a  man  of  years 
and  experience  and  a  youth  new  to  the 
world  and  its  temptations.  Hubert  de  Vil- 
liers was  fifteen  years  my  senior,  —  a  calm, 
clear  intellect ;  a  cold  brilliant  wit ;  fearless 
and  brave ;  generous  to  a  fault ;  but  without 
the  slightest  belief  in  anything  pure  or  good. 
He  laughed  at  virtue ;  he  styled  religion  an 
ignorant  superstition  of  bygone  ages,  and 
love  a  fable  and  a  myth ;  he  scoffed  at  what 
he  called  the  folly  of  self-restraint,  and  be- 
lieved a  man's  chief  duty  was  to  enjoy  the 
good  the  gods  gave  him,  without  questioning 
the  result. 

"It  is  needless  to  say  he  had  an  unbound- 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


11 


ed  influence  over  me.  I  worshipped  him.  I 
believed  him  superior  to  any  one  I  had  ever 
known.  I  confided  in  his  judgment,  I  trust- 
ed in  his  opinion ;  and  if  at  times  I  thought 
his  morals  loose,  I  believed  them  to  be  but 
the  results  of  the  world's  teaching. 

"  I  had  come  from  Paris  a  little  weary  ; 
and,  disgusted  with  fashionable  life,  resolved 
to  pass  my  time  more  profitably  in  Rome  by 
studying  the  antiquities  of  its  art  and  the 
remains  of  its  lost  glory.  I  found  our  home 
in  the  sombre  old  palace  very  congenial  to 
my  taste.  There  was  something  in  the 
dreamy  romance  of  the  narrow  stone  mul- 
lioned  windows,  the  lofty  frescoed  ceilings, 
and  the  faded  antique  furniture,  that  was  in 
harmony  with  my  feelings  at  that  period. 
With  my  books,  music,  and  Hubert  de  Vil- 
liers  for  my  companion,  I  anticipated  pass- 
ing the  winter  in  delightful  tranquillity. 

"  One  evening,  just  at  twilight,  as  I  en- 
tered the  door  of1  the  palace,  a  creature 
flitted  in  before  me,  up  the  broad  dingy 
stairs,  looking  back  over  her  shoulder  as 
sh.3  went,  and  smiling  in  an  arch  innocent 
way.  She  was  about  sixteen,  and  of  most 
radiant  beauty,  —  waves  of  glossy  hair  clus- 
tering above  a  low  Greek  forehead,  eyes  of 
limpid  clearness,  straight  delicate  nose,  and 
a  mouth  of  infantine  sweetness.  I  soon 
learned  she  was  the  daughter  of  the  porter  ; 
and  after  that,  as  she  often  came  to  our 
rooms  with  notes  and  messages,  I  found 
many  opportunities  of  talking  with  her. 
She  was  as  uneducated  as  a  child  of  six  years. 
She  could  neither  read  nor  write,  but  was 
passionately  fond  of  music,  and  sang  with 
wonderful  taste  and  expression  many  ex- 
quisite Italian  romances. 

"  I  cannot  describe  to  you  the  charm  that 
innocent,  sweet  child  of  nature  exercised 
upon  me.  It  is  sufficient  to  tell  you  that  in 
a  few  days  I  fancied  myself  madly  in  love 
with  her ;  but  now,  Constance,  that  I  have 
loved  you,  I  know  the  sentiment  I  then  ex- 
perienced was  only  passion,  —  wild  and 
sweet,  but  neither  pure  nor  lasting.  There 
was  a  freshness,  a  romance,  that  pleased  my 
youthful  fancy,  and,  before  God,  I  swear  to 
you,  in  the  first  days  of  my  delirious  love,  I 
did  not  dream  of  the  consequences  ;  neither 
did  I  intend  to  injure,  in  any  way,  the  con- 
fiding creature  who  I  soon  knew  loved  me 
with  the  unquestioning  trust  of  a  child.  I 
devoted  a  part  of  each  day  to  teaching  her 
the  rudiments  of  education,  and  I  was  more 
than  repaid  when  I  discovered  how  intelli- 
gent and  docile  she  was,  and  how  she  en- 
deavored to  please  rne  in  every  respect.  I 
can  see  hor  now  before  me,  trembling  with 
eager  excitement,  blushing,  and  twisting  her 
slender  fingers  as  she  recited  with  passion- 
ate emphasis  some  romantic  story  or  heroic 
poem ;  or  as  she  leaned  over  the  table,  with 
a  sort  of  graceful  awkwardness  tracing  her 


stiff  characters,  which  she  termed  writing, 
looking  up  in  my  face  with  a  shy,  pleased 
smile  if  I  approved,  or  turning  away  with 
tearful  eyes  and  pouting  lips  if  I  eluded.  The 
poor  ignorant  parents  left  us  much  together, 
only  too  proud  that  the  grand  Xif/nore  no- 
ticed their  child.  De  Villiers  laughed  and 
jeered  zit  my  Platonic  affection,  often  asking 
me  how  it  would  end  ;  and,  indeed,  it  was  a 
question  I  often  put  to  myself  for  I  began 
to  learn  that  this  simple  child  of  nature  was 
necessary  to  my  happiness,  and  also  that 
her  virtue  was  stronger  than  her  love.  My 
passion  increased  day  by  day,  until  even  the 
thought  of  leaving  her  made  me  miserable. 

"  Already  De  Villiers  talked  of  our  going 
from  Rome,  as  the  winter  was  drawing  to  a 
close,  and  urged  upon  me  the  need  of  mak- 
ing some  arrangements  for  our  spring  and 
summer's  diversion. 

"  One  day  I  said  to  him  that  I  did  not 
wish  to  leave  Rome  so  early,  as  I  was  very 
happy  and  contented. 

"  '  You  mean,'  he  said,  '  that  you  do  not 
wish  to  leave  your  inamorata.  If  you  love 
her,  why  don't  you  take  her  with  you,  away 
from  the  eyes  of  her  father  and  mother  ? 
They  will  begin  to  suspect  something  soon, 
and  then  there  will  be  a  grand  row.  You 
had  better  take  her  off  quietly  while  there 
is  a  chance ;  for  if  the  curato  gets  a  hint  of 
this  he  will  shut  her  up  in  a  convent,  and 
kill  her  with  penances,  and  then  you  may 
whistle  in  vain  for  your  bird.' 

"  '  What  do  ypu  mean,  De  Villiers  ?  '  I 
replied  ;  '  the  girl  is  virtuous,  and  she  will 
never  go  with  me  unless  I  marry  her ;  and, 
dearly  as  I  love  her,  I  cannot  bring  myself 
to  do  that.' 

"  '  Marry  her  ! '  said  De  Villiers,  with  a 
French  shrug,  —  '  marry  her !  Are  you  in- 
sane ?  You  believe  her  to  be  virtuous, 
bah  I  I  believe  her  to  be  cunning,  and  her 
old  mother  has  put  her  up  to  play  that 
game.  But,  if  you  don't  want  any  trouble, 
why  not  make  her  believe  you  have  married 
her,  and  then  afterwards,  if  you  become  mu- 
tually tired,  as  you  are  sure  to  do,  you  can 
separate,  settle  a  little  income  on  lur,  which 
will  heal  all  wounds,  and  so  the  matter  will 
end.' 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  the  sugges- 
tion of  De  Villiers  shocked  and  disgiiM. d 
me  at  first ;  for  then,  in  spite  cf  this  igno- 
ble, passion,  my  soul  was  struggling  to  tree 
itself  from  its  base  selfishness,  and  I  was 
hoping  and  dreaming  that  1  might  do  some- 
thing for  my  fellow-men,  something  for  the 
freedom  of  Italy. 

"But  I  was  young,  weak,  nnd  passionate. 
Day  by  day  the  evil  suggestion  grew  upon 
me,  until,  fn  an  hour  of  madness,  I  consented 
to  the  crime  that  has  worked  out  for  mo 
such  a  fearful  punishment. 

"  A  mutual  friend,  who  had  masqueraded 


12 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


during  Carnival  as  a  priest,  agreed  to  per- 
form the  ceremony. 

"  I  silenced  my  conscience  with  the  re- 
solve, that,  after  I  had  educated  her,  and 
taught  her  some  of  the  refinements  of  life, 
I  would  marry  her  and  acknowledge  her  as 
my  wife. 

"  1  told  the  poor  child,  that,  on  account  of 
my  being  a  Protestant,  the  marriage  must 
be  performed  by  a  priest  secretly,  in  the 
private  chapel  of  a  friend ;  and  until  I  was 
ready  to  take  her  to  England  no  one  must 
suspect  it.  At  first  she  protested  she  could 
not  ba  married  without  the  knowledge  of 
her  parents ;  but,  at  last,  her  love  and  my 
persuasion  overcame  her  scruples,  and  she 
consented. 

"The  farce  was  finished;  and  my  self- 
reproach  and  detestation  were  overwhelm- 
ing when  the  innocent  creature  threw  her- 
self on  my  breast,  and  murmured,  in  her 
sweet,  rich  tones,  'Marito  mio.'  But  it 
was  too  late  to  retract,  and  again  I  silenced 
my  conscience  by  renewing  my  vow,  that,  in 
the  future,  I  would  make  every  reparation 
possible. 

"  Than  followed  days  of  delirious  happi- 
ness, stolen  interviews,  and  secret  meet- 
ings, whila  Da  Villiers,  with  wonderful 
ingenuity,  kept  all  suspicion  from  her  par- 
ents. It  was  during  these  days,  and  in 
some  of  our  stolen  walks  and  drives  to  the 
neighboring  villas,  that  she  gathered  these 
flowers,  which  she  afterwards  arranged  with 
much  skill  and  taste.  And  thinking,  no 
doubS,  to  surprise  me  soma  time  with  this 
hidden  inscription,  she  wrote,  with  much 
care,  thesa  words  that  years  afterwards 
were  to  reveal  my  crime,  and  indaed  sur- 
prise me  in  a  manner  the  child  little  thought 
of. 

"  More  than  a  month  had  passed  after  the 
false  marriage,  and  I  had  been  so  blindly 
happy  tint  1  dare  not  say  I  had  felt  any  re- 
morse, when,  ona  evening,  Da  Villiers  rushed 
into  my  room  in  breathless  haste,  exclaim- 
ing, '  Make  yourself  ready  as  quickly  as 
possible !  you  must  leave  Roma  to-night, 
and  take  Mona  with  you.  If  not,  she  will 
be  in  a  convent  to-morrow  morning.  1 
have  overheard  a  conversation  between  the 
cura'o  and  bar  mothar,  which  leads  me  to 
suppose  the  little  fool  has  told  something  at 
confession.  How  mush,  I  do  not  know  ; 
but  they  have  decidad  to  send  her  to  a  con- 
vent to-morrow  morning,  —  no  doubt,  a  plan 
to  make  you  acknowledge  the  marriage, 
which,  thay  think,  has  been  performed,  or 
to  extort  a  handsome  sum  of  money  for  the 
Church.  So,  you  see,  you  have  no  time  to 
lose.' 

"  Two  hours  later,  aclosod  carri<4ge  passed 
the  Porta  Santa  Maria  Mags;iore  with  all 
the  speed  possible.  Within  it  were  Mona 
and  myself.  The  poor  child  lay  on  my 


breast,  sobbing  convulsively  with  sorrow  at 
leaving  her  mother,  whom  she  loved  ten- 
derly, without  a  word  of  adieu.  It  was  a 
delicious  moonlight  night  of  early  spring; 
and  as  the  carriage  rolled  smoothly  over 
miles  of  Roman  campagna,  she  gradually 
became  calmer,  her  sobs  died  away,  and 
she  slept  on  my  breast.  God  knows  that, 
when  I  looked  at  her  pale,  tear-stained  face, 
as  she  lay  in  my  arms  like  a  weary  child,  I 
believed  I  loved  her ;  and  if  she  had  only 
been  true  to  me,  she  might,  indeed,  have 
been  my  wife. 

"  I  went  directly  to  the  little  bathing- 
town  of  Pescara,  on  the  Adriatic,  where  I 
took  a  cottage  for  the  spring  and  summer. 
O  Constance  !  I  thought  I  was  happy  then. 
The  hours  passed  away  in  a  sort  of  dreamy 
sweetness,  and  each  day  added  some  new 
charm  to  the  dazzling  beauty  of  Mona. 
Her  youth,  her  gentleness,  intelligence, 
and  purity  of  character,  her  love  of  study, 
and,  above  all,  her  almost  slavish  devotion 
to  me,  increased  my  affection,  and  taught 
me»every  hour  how  necessary  she  was  to  my 
happiness.  I  had  firmly  resolved  never  to 
reveal  to  her  the  secret  of  the  fake  marriage, 
but,  after  the  summer  was  over,  to  take  her  to 
Florence,  marry  her  according  to  the  rites 
•of  the  Protestant  Church,  which  the  differ- 
ence in  our  religion  made  necessary,  and 
then  go  to  England,  and  install  her  as  mis- 
tress of  Helmsford.  She  was  naturally 
refined  and  delicate  in  her  tastes ;  and  my 
constant  teaching  and  companionship  had 
so  improved  her,  I  felt  she  would  grace  any 
position. 

"  In  August  the  Count  de  Villiers  came 
to  us.  I  cannot  say  he  added  materially 
to  my  happiness,  for  my  life  during  four 
months  had  been  so  tranquil  and  dreamy, 
that  he,  fresh  from  the  gay  world,  with  his 
irrepressible  noisy  mirth,  rather  jarred  upon 
my  spirits,  and  Mona  did  not  appear  at  all 
pleased  with  the  intrusion. 

"  However,  he  was  my  friend,  and  had 
rendered  me  essential  service  at  the  time 
of  my  flight,  so  I  welcomed  him  warmly, 
and  established  him  in  the  most  com- 
fortable manner  possible  in  a  cottage  near 
us. 

"  We  spent  some  delightful  days  together, 
riding  over  the  hiils,  sauntering  among  the 
olive  groves,  fishing,  bathing,  or  chatting  of 
the  past,  while  we  smoked  under  the  vine- 
clad  trellis  of  our  little  garden.  In  the 
evening  we  floated  on  the  moonlit  Adriatic, 
li-tening  to  Mona  while  she  fang  the  wild 
sweet  songs  of  the  Marinaro,  or  the  more 
impassioned  romances'or  plaintive  A  ves  of 
the  Eternal  City. 

"  One  day,  near  the  end  of  September,  I 
received  a  letter  from  Florence,  where  my 
immediate  presence  was  de.-ired  on  a  mat- 
ter of  much  importance  connected  with  a 


WOVEN   OF   MANY  THREADS. 


13 


bank  where  I  had  deposited  a  large  sum  of 
money. 

"  I  scarcely  had  time  to  say  farewell  to 
Mona,  and  place  her  in  the  care  of  De  Vil- 
liers,  before  the  carriage  was  at  the  door 
ready  for  my  departure. 

"  The  girl  clung  to  me  in  the  most  frantic 
manner,  imploring  me  not  to  leave  her.  say- 
ing she  should  never  see  me  again. 

"  I  reassured  her  with  the  most  tender  and 
loving  words,  telling  her  I  should  return  in 
a  week,  and  then  we  should  never  be  parted 
again,  and  that  she  should  receive  a  letter 
from  me  each  day. 

"  She  made  a  courageous  effort  to  be  calm, 
but  there  was  something  in  her  face  that 
haunted  me  long  after,  —  an  expression  of 
agony  and  despair,  so  deep,  so  unaffected, 
that  when  I  think  of  .what  followed  I  can- 
not, with  all  my  years  and  experience,  find 
a  solution  to  the  problem  of  the  human 
heart. 

"  At  that  moment  I  would  have  staked  my 
life  on  the  truth  and  strength  of  her  love 
and  virtue. 

"  I  never  saw  her  again.  When  we  parted 
then,  we  parted  forever. 

"  My  absence  was  prolonged  to  two  weeks. 
At  first  I  received  a  letter  every  day  from 
Mona,  expressive  of  the  deepest  love  and 
sorrow,  and  the  most  ardent  desire  that  I 
should  return.  Then  a  week  of  silence, 
which  was  followed  by  a  letter  from  De 
Villiers,  —  my  friend,  remember,  —  a  letter 
which  ran  thus.  I  have  not  forgotten  one 
word,  for  a  long  time  they  were  stamped 
upon  my  brain,  and  I  saw  them  day  and 
night  before  me  in  characters  of  fire. 

" '  All  is  fair  in  love  and  war,  Vandeleur. 
Your  immaculate,  innocent  Mona  has  proved 
herself  to  be  no  better  than  the  rest  of  her 
sex.  For  a  few  days  after  your  departure 
she  was  inconsolable,  then  she  wisely  con- 
cluded a  lover  near  her  was  better  than  a 
dozen  absent  one?,  and  so  she  has  kindly 
permitted  me  to  comfort  her  with  such  little 
attentions  as  I  am  only  too  glad  to  bestow. 
Last  night  she  begged  me,  with  tears,  to 
take  her  away,  as  she  feared  your  return. 
I  have  promised  to  do  so ;  and  when  this 
reaches  you,  your  cage  will  be  empty,  your 
bird  flown.  I  know  you  will  be  furious  at 
first,  but  after  a  little  you  will  come  to  your 
senses,  and  see  the  folly  of  allowing  a 
woman  to  destroy  our  friendship.  When 
we  meet,  which  will  not  be  for  the  present, 
we  can  arrange  the  little  matter  amicably. 
" '  Yours  as  ever, 

" '  DE  VILLIERS.' 

"  For  a  few  moments  I  was  stupefied  at  the 
cool  villany  of  the  letter ;  but  as  I  re-read  it 
the  conviction  took  possession  of  my  mind 
that  it  Avas  a  fraud,  some  test  to  prove  my 
love  and  my  confidence  in  Mona.  No,  I 


could  not  believe  it,  it  was  too  improba- 
ble. 

"  I  immediately  ordered  my  carriage,  and 
started  for  Pescara.  When  I  reached  the 
cottage  the  servant  came  out  to  meot  me, 
with  a  surprised  expression  on  her  withered 
face.  '  Had  I  not  met  the  sifjnora  ?  She 
had  left  three  days  before,  with  the  Sn/nor 
Francese,  to  go  to  me.'  And  so  that  was 
the  end  of  my  romance,  my  love,  my  trust, 
my  good  resolutions. 

"  Without  entering  the  place  where  I  had 
passed  the  happiest  hours  of  my  life,  I  turned 
away,  and  walked  for  hours  on  the  sea-shore, 
pouring  out  my  rage  and  di?appointmeut  to 
the  unheeding  waves,  and  revolving  in  my 
mind  fearful  plans  of  vengeance.  At  last  I 
had  matured  them.  I  determined  to  follow 
the  guilty  pair,  and  with  my  own  hand  add 
the  crime  of  murder  to  my  other  sins. 

"  I  hurried  from  the  spot  that -reminded  me 
too  forcibly  of  my  lost  happiness,  mad  with 
the  thirst  for  the  blood  of  my  rival.  From 
that  moment  my  nature  changed,  I  lost  faith 
in  everything,  1  became  fierce,  almost  brutal, 
in  my  desire  for  the  life  of  De  Villiers.  I 
rushed  frantically  from  one  part  of  the 
country  to  another,  seeking  for  this  man.  I 
spared  neither  time  nor  money,  but  I  never 
discovered  a  trace  of  himv  nor  of  the  girl 
who  had  so  deceived  me. 

"  More  than  a  year  passed  in  this  useless 
fever  of  anxiety  and  then  I  began  to  be 
calmer  and  more  indifferent. 

"  Italy  was  hateful  to  me,  and,  ever  thirsting 
for  some  new  excitement,  I  commenced  my 
wanderings.  But  there  were  hours  in  the 
silent  night  when  that  face  of  infantine 
sweetness  would  rise  before  me,  and  the  soft 
tearful  eyes  look  reproach  into  mine,  and 
then  1  would  suffer  the  keenest  remorse  for 
having  left  her  exposed  to  the  snaies  of  a 
villain.  But  gradually  that  too  passed  away, 
and  after  years  I  came  to  look  upon  that 
episode  in  my  life  as  a  sweet  dream  of  my 
youth,  followed  by  a  rude  awakening,  the 
result  of  all  delusions. 

"  Now  you  have  heard  all,  Constance  ;  can 
you  forgive  me  1 " 

His  face  was  white  and  worn,  and  his  lips 
quivered  with  agonized  emotion  as  he  asked 
the  question. 

Constance  had  listened  to  his  recital  in 
perfect  silence,  her  face  buried  in  her  hands ; 
but  now,  as  he  paused  for  an  answer,  she 
nrose,  and,  pushing  back  the  hair  from  her 
face,  she  revealed  in  her  calm,  set  features 
all  the  strength  of  her  heroic  soul. 

"  Yes,  Richard,"  she  said  gently,  laying 
her  cold  hand  on  his,  —  "  yes,  1  forgive  you,  I 
dare  not  condemn  you,  but  I  can  never, 
never  be  your  wife." 

"  O  Constance,"  he  groaned,  "is  it  possi- 
ble you  can  decide  so  hastily  and  so  cruelly  t " 

"  Hush !   you   promised  to   receive  your 


14 


WOVEN   OF  MAXY   THREADS. 


sentence  from  my  lips  without  a  murmur. 
Be  equal  to  your  word.  I  cannot  be  your 
wife.  It  is  impossible.  You  owe  a  solemn 
duty  to  the  poor  injured  child,  who  my 
woman's  heart  tells  me  was  innocent.  O 
man !  wise  in  your  own  conceit,  but  dull 
and  stupid  to  the  voice  of  nature,  do  you 
not  know,  can  you  not  understand,  that 
she  loved  you,  and,  if  she  lives,  loves  you 
still  ?  Then  how  could  she  deceive  you  ? 
No,  no,  she  was  but  the  victim  to  the  snares 
and  falsehood  of  a  villain.  I  beseech  you,  as 
you  hope  for  mercy  from  God,  to  seek  her 
throughout  the  world,  and,  if  you  find  her, 
make  her  what  reparation  is  in  your  power. 
Nothing  would  induce  me  to  become  your 
wife.  You  are  no  longer  the  Richard  Van- 
deleur  I  worshipped.  In  your  new  charac- 
ter I  cannot,  I  do  not,  love  you.  The  hero, 
the  good,  the  noble,  born  perhaps  of  my  own 
imagination,'  is  no  longer  the  man  who 
stands  before  me ;  and,  Richard,  forgive  me 
if  I  wound  you;  but  I  dare  not  unite  my  life 
to  one  who  has  stained  his  soul  with  such  a 
crime.  I  freely  pardon  you,  because  you 
have  suffered,  and  you  will  suffer,  but  strive 
to  learn  with  me  that  self-abnegation  brings 
peace.  Now  listen  to  my  last  request,  my 
only  prayer.  Leave  Helmsford  this  very 
night,  and  do  not  return  until  we  can  meet 
as  friends.  I  will  explain  all  to  papa.  I 
can  do  it  better  than  any  other ;  and,  more 
than  all,  I  will  keep  this  confidence  sacred. 
My  father  shall  believe  you  what  1  have 
thought  you  to  be." 

"  O  Constance  ! "  he  cried,  falling  on  his 
knees,  and  clasping  her  cold  hands  in  his,  "  I 
beseech,  I  implore  you,  not  to  be  so  hasty 
in  your  decision.  Reflect,  think  what  you 
are  doing;  you  are  driving  me  from  you 
to  endless  despair.  I  am  lost,  utterly  lost, 
without  your  love." 

"  Rise,"  she  said ;  "  this  is  weakness. 
Be  a  man  in  your  grief.  Do  not  let  it  be 
necessary  for  a  woman  to  teach  you  how  to 
be  strong.  The  future  is  before  you. 
Whether  you  ennoble  or  debase  your  soul, 
your  own  acts  will  determine.  If  we  can- 
not be  more  to  each  other,  make  yourself 
worthy  to  be  my  friend ;  and  believe  me," 
shs  added,  with  a  smile  whose  divine  sad- 
ness and  sweetness  entered  his  soul,  "  we 
shall  both  find  oi\r  greatest  happiness  in 
doing  our  duty,  a.~\d  time  will  teach  us, 
that,  though  youth  and  passion  have  passed, 
friendship  may  endure." 

"  O  Constance  !  "  he  said,  "  O  more  than 
woman !  O  pure,  strong  angel !  Now, 
that  I  have  known  you,  why  have  I  known 
you  too  late?  Here,  on  my  knees,  as  in 
the  presence  of  God,  I  swear  in  my  future 
to  strive  to  atone  for  the  past ;  and,  when 
we  meet  again,  you  shall  say  I  am 
worthy  to  ba  your  friend."  He  arose,  a 
ligrht  beaming  from  his  face.  "  And  now 


farewell,"  he  said,  pressing  her  hands  to  his 
lips,  while  the  hot  tears  rained  over  them, 
—  "farewell;  and  when  I  have  conquered 
myself,  you  shall  hear  from  me.  Pray  for 
me,  and  watch  over  me  from  afar ;  aiid  if 
you  need  me,  nothing  but  death  shall  keep 
me  from  you." 

He  clasped  her  one  moment  in  his  arms, 
pressed  a  long  kiss  upon  her  cold  lips,  and 
then,  turning  away,  walked  from  the  room 
with  a  firm  step.  And  when  the  door  closed 
upon  him,  and  hid  him  from  her  sight,  Con- 
stance threw  herself  on  her  knees  and 
moaned  aloud  in  her  agony. 


CHAPTER    VIH. 

0  life,  so  sweet  and  yet  so  sad  ! 

A  FEW  moments  of  bitter  weeping,  a  si- 
lent prayer,  and  Constance  struggled 
up  beneath  her  burden,  prepared  to  finish 
the  part  she  had  undertaken. 

The  book  still  lay  before  her,  open  at  the 
fatal  page.  She  took  it  to  her  room  and 
locked  it  in  a  drawer.  She  smoothed  her 
hair,  bathed  her  eyes,  and  then  descended 
to  the  library  to  speak  with  her  father. 

When  she  entered  he  was  sitting  at  the 
writing-table,  a  book  open  before  him,  but 
he  was  not  reading.  His  face  was  buried  in 
his  hands,  and  he  seemed  in  deep  thought. 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  going  softly  toward 
him^  with  a  mouth  that  smiled  in  the  mid- 
dle but  wept  at  the  cornersA  as  Lamartir.e 
so  pathetically  says,  —  "papa,  dear,  may  I 
speak  to  you  a  moment?" 

"  Yes,  my  darling,  what  is  it  ?  Why  are 
you  so  pale  ?  " 

She  knelt  beside  him,  and,  putting  her 
arms  around  his  neck,  leane'd  her  head 
on  his  breast,  and  looked  into  his  face  with 
a  tender  scrutiny. 

"You  are  sad,  papa,  —  sad  because  you 
think  I  shall  leave  you  to-morrow." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  in  a  trembling  voice, 
pressing  his  lips  to  her  white  forehead, 
—  "  yes,  I  have  been  thinking  of  it,  and  I 
must  confess  I  shall  be  miserably  lonely 
without  you." 

She  made  an  effort  to  throw  all  the 
lightness  and  cheerfulness  possible  into 
her  voice  as  she  said:  "But,  darling,  I  shall 
not  leave  you  to-morrow ;  something  has 
occurred  that  makes  it  impossible.  Rich- 
ard must  leave  Helmsford  to-night.  It  is  a 
matter  of  importance  that  forces  him;  in 
fact,  it  is  a  secret  that  he  cannot  explain, 
nor  I  either,  dear  papa ;  but  I  am  con- 
vinced it  is  absolutely  necessary  lie  should 
go,  and  I  am  contented  to  remain  a  little 
longer  with  you.  It  is  better,  is  it  not? 
and  you  are  very  glad  to  keep  your  poor 
child?" 


WOVEN  OF  MANY  THREADS. 


15 


She  had  spoken  rapidly,  as  though  to 
prevent  all  questions  or  explanations,  and 
by  her  very  lightness  to  disarm  him  of  all 
suspicion. 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  you,"  he  said, 
with  an  uneasy  look,  passing  his  hand  over 
his  forehead ;  "  you  don't  mean  that  you 
shall  not  be  married  to-morrow,  and  that 
Richard  is  going  away  to-night  without  a 
word  of  explanation  to  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  papa ;  he  must  leave  in  an  hour  to 
catch  the  train  for  London ;  and  you  know 
he  had  so  much  to  say  to  me  that  he  had  no 
time  to  speak  with  you.  So  I  told  him  I 
would  explain  it  all,  and  then  he  felt  so 
badly  to  leave  me  in  this  sudden  manner  ; 
and  now,  dear  papa,  don't  ask  me  any  ques- 
tions. You  can  trust  me,  can't  you?  And, 
indeed,  I  am  so  happy  and  contented  to  re- 
main with  you." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  are  happy,  my  child  ?  " 
he  said,  looking  long  and  earnestly  into  her 
face.  "  Are  you  sure  you  are  happy  V  " 

"  How  can  I  help  being  happy  with  you, 
papa  ?  I  have  always  been  happy  with 
you,"  she  replied. 

"  And  what  will  Madame  Landel  and  the 
servants  think  ?  "  he  questioned,  with  anxi- 
ety. 

"  O,  as  to  dear  Madam,  I  will  tell  her  all 
that  is  necessary,  and  the  servants  are  very 
good.  Whatever  explanation  I  choose  to 
make  will  satisfy  them ;  beside,  we  must 
not  mind  what  they  think.  And  now,  papa, 
you  will  have  me  to  make  your  tea,  warm 
your  slippers,  cut  your  review,  and  be  your 
naughty  little  girl  the  same  as  ever.  Won't 
it  be  better '?  " 

"  My  child  !  my  child !  "  he  said,  pressing 
her  to  his  heart  with  a  sudden  burst  of  ten- 
derness; "  I  don't  know  what  this  means. 
I  don't  understand  why  this  secret  is  kept 
from  me ;  I  only  know  it  is  your  wish, 
and  so  I  shall  not  insist ;  but  I  hope,  I  trust, 
you  are  not  acting  a  part,  —  that  you  are 
not  wrecking  your  future  happiness  by  false 
pride  or  mistaken  duty." 

"  No,  no,  papa  !  believe  me,  it  is  better  as 
it  i?." 

He  looked  into  her  face  again  and  read 
something  there  that  told  him  it  was  indeed 
better  as  it  was.  And  so  he  said  no  more. 

Then  she  kissed  him  very  calmly  and 
tenderly,  and  went  away,  leaving  him  in  the 
twilight  musing  over  the  strangeness  of  this 
event. 

"  Ah,"   she   said,    going    slowly  up    the 
stairs  to  the  room  of  Madame  Landel,  "ah,  I 
how  heavily  this  burden  presses  upon  me  !    I  ; 
wonder  if  I  can  bear  up  under  it  until  the 
evening  is  finished  and  I  am  alone  in  my 
room.     I  shall  tell  Madame  Landel  she  must 
give  whate.ver  explanation    she   pleases  to  j 
the  servant?,  and  thea  it  is^finished.     The  ! 
few  friends  who  knew  of  my  intended  mar-  j 


riage  will  wonder  at  first,  but  in  a  little 
while  they  will  cease  to  think  of  it,  and  all 
will  be  as  before,  only  here  —  "  and  she 
pressed  her  hand  upon  her  heart  with  a 
dreary  sigh. 

Her  conversation  with  Madame  Landel 
was  much  the  same  as  with  her  father. 

"  And  now,"  she  said,  when  she  had 
finished,  "  put  everything  out  of  sight,  and 
let  us  forget  this  episode  in  our  quiet  life. 
In  a  few  days  everything  will  be  as  it  was 
before." 

But  her  heart  gave  her  lips  the  lie.  She 
knew  things  could  never  be  to  her  again  as 
they  had  been  before.  And  Madame  Lan- 
del, although  she  did  not  question  or  preach, 
knew  by  the  suffering  face,  which  laid  aside 
its  mask  before  her,  that  a  terrible  blow  had 
fallen  on  the  heart  of  the  poor  girl. 

"  We  will  try,"  said  Constance  to  her 
friend,  before  going  down  to  dinner,  —  "  we 
will  try  to  be  cheerful  in  dear  papa's  pres- 
ence." 

The  evening  passed  away  much  as  the 
evenings  had  before  Mr.  Vandeleur  made 
one  of  their  party.  Mr.  Wilbreham  said 
little,  he  seemed  almost  stupefied  by  the 
suddenness  of  the  change  in  their  arrange- 
ments, and  he  felt  he  must  submit  in  un- 
questioning silence  to  let  things  flow  back 
into  their  old  channels.  As  he  laid  his  head 
on  his  pillow  that  night,  he  felt  more  than 
ever  how  one  by  one  the  threads  of  his  life 
•were  relaxing,  how  weary  he  was  of  it  all, 
how  he  longed  for  rest.  He  sighed,  and 
said  more  than  once,  "  If  I  could  have  seen 
her  happily  married  before  I  left  her  !  But  it 
cannot  be,  it  cannot  be." 

And  Constance  alone  in  her  room,  with 
her  door  closed  and  locked  against  intru- 
sion, wrapped  in  a  white  dressing-gown,  and 
her  long  hair  loosened  from  its  fastenings, 
sat  before  the  dying  embers,  her  cold  hands 
pressed  to  her  throbbing  temples,  her  sad, 
tearless  eyes  looking  inward  at  the  ruin  a 
few  hours  had  made  in  her  hopes,  in  her 
prospects. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  thought,  "  if  this  one  day  has 
seemed  so  long,  how  shall  I  pass  all  the 
future  days  of  my  life  ?  In  the  morning  I 
shall  say,  Would  to  God  it  were  night !  and 
at  night,  Would  to  God  it  were  morning  ! 
How  shall  I  act  — wear  a  mask  of  smiles, 
and  struggle  to  put  down  every  tender  feel- 
ing that  will  arise  in  my  heart,  drive  from 
me  resolutely  every  sweet  memory  of  the 
past  ?  Yes,  yes,  there  must  be  no  past  for 
me ;  I  must  forget  it,  and  live  only  for  the 
future.  But  O  the  loneliness,  the  dreariness, 
of  the  present,  the  longing  for  what  can 
never  come  again,  the  haunting  memory  of 
a  lost  happiness,  —  will  they  all  combine  to 
render  my  days  a  burden  ?  Methinks  it 
would  be  the  luxury  of  grief  to  lie  in  dnrk- 
ness  and  weep  silently,  to  cherish  thoughts 


16 


WOVEN   OF   MANY   THREADS. 


born  of  disappointment  and  sorrow ;  to  find 
my  only  consolation  in  the  free  indulgence 
of  suffering ;  but  no,  no,  I  cannot.  For 
papa's  sake  I  must  act  a  part,  I  must  strive 
for  forf  etfulness,  I  must  think  only  of  what 
will  be5.  I  have  read  in  some  Eastern  story 
that  two  angels  ever  attend  us,  one  with 
wings  of  light  and  the  other  with  wings  of 
darkness,  and  when  we  look  up  and  smile 
in  the  face  of  the  angel  of  light,  the  spirit 
of  darkness  quickly  throws  the  shadow  of 
his  black  wing  over  us,  fearful  lest  we 
should  forget  in  the  light  of  our  glorious 
companion  that  for  every  joy  there  is  an 
equal  balance  of  sorrow.  For  a  little  while 
the  white-winged  angel  of  peace  has  walked 
by  my  side.  I  have  looked  in  his  face  and 
smiled,  thinking  he  would  ever  bear  me 
company ;  but  now  the  shadow  of  the  dark 
wing  is  thrown  over  me,  and  I  fear  it  will 
never  pass  away." 

Long,  long  she  sat  there,  until  the  gray 
dawn  stole  into  her  room,  the  dawn  of  the 
day  that  was  to  have  witnessed  her  bridal. 
With  one  glance  at  her  pale,  worn  face  she 
crept  shiveringly  into  bed,  feeling  as  if  she 
could  never  rise  again. 

At  that  same  hour  a  haggard,  ghastly 
face,  with  red,  swollen  eyes,  looked  from  a 
flying  railway  carriage  out  into  the  cold, 
cheerless  morning. 

After  a  few  days,  life  at  the  rectory  re- 
turned to  the  old  routine.  The  servants 
wondered  and  talked  but  little.  Respect 
and  love  for  their  mistress  kept  them  silent. 
Helmsford  was  again  closed  for  an  indefinite 

Eeriod,  much  to  the  disgust  of  the  butler  and 
ousekeeper.  Constance  went  through  her 
duties  with  her  usual  regularity,  but  the 
loving  eyes  of  her  father,  who  watched  her 
with  an  anxious  scrutiny,  detected  a  rest- 
lessness and  uncertainty  in  her  deportment 
which  was  entirely  different  from  her  placid 
nature.  She  often  started  up  suddenly  in 
the  midst  of  a  quiet  conversation,  or  laid 
down  her  book  at  the  most  interesting  chap- 
ter, and  hurried  from  the  room  as  though 
inaction  were  unendurable ;  or  she  would  for- 
get to  answer  when  she  was  addressed,  and  sit 
looking  into  vacancy,  from  which  preoccu- 
pation she  would  start  as  one  awakening  from 
a  painful  dream.  She  worked  with  indefati- 
gable industry,  she  visited  the  poor  oftener 
than  ever,  she  took  long  walks  and  rides, 
she  read  the  most  abstruse  literature,  she 
practised  perseveringly,  and  sang  in  a  richer, 
clearer  voice  than  ever,  always  avoiding  Mr. 
Vandeleur's  favorite  music.  She  forced  her- 
self to  fatiguing  exertion,  so  that  at  night 
she  would  fall  into  a  heavy  slumber,  from 
which  she  would  awake  with  a  sense  of 
some  heavy  calamity  hanging  over  her.  A 
red  spot  often  burned  on  her  cheek,  her 
eyes  were  brighter  and  larger,  she  grew 
thinner  and  paler,  but  none  the  less  active ; 


an  inward  fever  and  excitement  seemed  con- 
suming her. 

Madame  Landel  often  remonstrated  with 
her,  but  she  only  replied  with  a  dreary 
smile,  "  My .  only  forgetfulness  is  in  occu- 
pation. 1  am  young  and  strong,  my  system 
can  endure  it,  and  by  and  by  the  cure  will 
come." 

And  so  the  winter  passed  away,  and  with 
the  spring  Constance  knew  she  had  but 
a  little  longer  to  act  a  part  in  order  to  de- 
ceive her  father;  for  each  day  he  grew 
weaker  and  less  inclined  for  exertion,  leav- 
ing most  of  his  duties  to  his  curate,  always 
saying,  "  It  will  not  be  long ;  I  shall  be  bet- 
ter soon." 

She  watched  him  with  a  sinking  heart,  as 
he  tottered,  leaning  heavily  on  his  stick, 
across  the  garden  to  the  vestry,  which  now 
he  often  neglected  to  do  for  several  days 
together  ;  when  lie  preached,  all  the  congre- 
gation noticed  how  confused  his  ideas  were, 
and  how  his  voice  failed  and  giew  weaker 
each  succeeding  Sabbath.  Latterly  he  had 
become  very  dear  to  his  people,  and  they 
often  said,  sadly,  "  This  is  his  last  Sunday. 
Poor  old  gentleman,  he  is  breaking  up  fast." 

One  Sabbath  in  early  spring  he  indeed 
preached  his  last  sermon;  but  he  did  not 
think  it  himself,  saying,  when  he  Avas  too  ill 
to  leave  the  house,  "  It  is  a  slight  indisposi- 
tion, which  will  pass  away.  When  the  warm 
weather  comes,  I  shall  be  better." 

When  the  warm  weather  came  he  was 
indeed  better,  but  in  that  land  where  they 
no  more  say  "  I  am  sick." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  And  Time  swings  wide  his  outward  gate 
To  weary  age." 

ONE  evening  early  in  April  Constance 
sat  at  her  father's  feet,  reading  aloud  to 
him  from  the  life  of  Thomas-a-Kempis. 

He  was  very  pale  and  thin,  and  as  he  lay 
back  on  his  pillow,  with  his  Avhite  hair  fall- 
ing on  his  shoulders,  his  eyes  closed,  a  placid 
smile  on  his  lips,  and  his  long,  weary-looking 
hands  quietly  folded,  he  appeared  not  unlike 
a  pictured  saint  of  Perugino. 

When  Constance  had  finished  the  chap- 
ter she  glanced  up  in  his  face ;  he  seemed 
to  be  sleeping,  and  so  she  read  no  more,  but 
let  the  book  fall  from  her  hands,  and,  leaning 
her  head  against  the  arm  of  the  chair,  she 
looked  anxiously  into  her  father's  face,  — 
anxiously,  as  she  was  wont  to  do  of  late, — 
and  retraced  again  and  again  the  ravages 
that  time,  sorrow,  and  sickness  had  im- 
printed there. 

"  How  strong  our  hold  must  be  on  life," 
she  thought,  "  when  we  can  suffer  so  much 
and  yet  live  so  loag  !  I  have  not  lived  one 


WOVEN  OF  MANY  THREADS. 


17 


third  of  papa's  years,  and  yet  I  feel  so  old. 

0  darling,  if  you  could  only  fold  mo  in 
your  arms  and  take  me  away  with  you !     I 
am  so  tired,  and  1  so  need  the  long,  sweet 
rest  of  eternity.     You  will  go  away  to  infi- 
nite  happiness  and  leave  me  here.  And  what 
for  ?    Only  to  long  and  pine  to  be  with  you. 

1  cannot   unite   again    the   threads  of  life 
where   they  were   broken ;  no,  the  web  is 
sadly  entangled ;  I  cannot  repair  this  con- 
fusion.     Soon  I  shall  be  alone,  and   then 
there  will  be  no  necessiby  to  keep  up  this 
appearance  of  interest.      What  shall  I  do  ? 
—  sink  into  a  melancholy  nonentity  ;  live 
day  after  day,  like  Mariana  in  the  moated 
grange,  sighing,  — 

1 ....  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead '. ' 

If  God  wills  I  should  live,  he  wills  it  for 
some  purpose,  and  yet  my  future  looks  to 
me  like  a  sluggish,  turbid  pool,  sleeping  for- 
ever beneath  dark  shadows,  with  never  a 
ray  of  sunlight  or  breath  of  wind  to  ripple 
its  surface." 

Her  father  stirred,  and  awoke  from  his 
light  doze.  "  What  are  you  thinking  of, 
my  child  ? "  he  inquired,  tenderly,  as  he 
laid  his  trembling  hand  on  her  head.  "  O, 
how  this  stupor  oppresses  me  when  I  can- 
not keep  awake  during  the  reading  of  my 
favorite  books !  Well,  it  seems  to  warn  me 
of  the  last  sleep  that  will  soon  fall  upon 
me." 

"  Don't  speak  so,  dear ;  you  know  this  is 
the  usual  time  for  your  daily  nap,  and  you 
have  slept  so  little  of  nights  lately,  certainly 
you  must  have  some  repose  in  the  day. 
Don't  you  think,"  she  said,  looking  at  him 
earnestly,  and  speaking  with  a  little  trem- 
ble in  her  voice,  —  "  don't  you  think  you  are 
somewhat  stronger  and  have  more  appetite 
since  the  warm  days  came  ?  —  the  winter  has 
been  so  severe." 

"  No,  no,  my  darling,  I  am  no  stronger. 
You  must  not  deceive  yourself;  I  have  but 
a  little  time  to  remain  with  you,  and  I  have 
much  to  say,  my  child.  This  seems  a  fitting 
time.  I  thought  to  have  left  you  happy  under 
the  protection  of  the  man  you  loved;  but 
God  seems  to  have  willed  it  otherwise, 
and  I  must  not  complain.  I  should  like 
to  know,  before  my  death,  something  of 
the  mysterious  circumstance  that  has  sep- 
arated you  from  one  I  thought  in  every 
way  worthy  of  you,  and  whom  I  had  every 
reason  to  believe  you  loved." 

"  I  did  love  him,  papa,"  she  said,  in  a 
low  voice ;  "  I  did  love  him,  but  he  owed  a 
solemn  duty  to  another.  Was  I  wrong  to 
insist  upon  his  performing  it,  even  at  the 
sacrifice  of  my  own  happiness  ?  " 

"  No,  my  noble-hearted  child ;    you  did 

right,  and  your  reward  will  be  peace  and 

happiness  at  last.     I  will  speak  no  more  of 

3 


it.  I  understand  and  approve  of  the  prin- 
ciple that  teaches  you  to  spare  me  the 
knowledge  of  any  wrong  act  on  the  part  of 
the  man  you  have  loved.  There  arc  other 
things  I  wish  to  speak  of  connected  with 
your  future.  You  know  after  I  am  gone, 
dear  as  this  home  is  to  you.  it  will  bu  yours 
no  longer  ;  my  successor  must  have  the  rec- 
tory ;  but  wherever  you  may  choose  to  fix 
your  residence,  it  is  my  wish  that  Madame 
Landel  should  remain  with  you.  Your 
mother's  fortune,  with  what  little  I  shall 
leave,  renders  you  independent.  As  I  have 
no  near  relatives  to  whom  I  can  intrust  so 
precious  a  charge,  I  have  written  to  Lady 
Dinsmore  to  recommend  you  to  her  kind- 
ness and  protection.  Many  years  ago  your 
dear  mother  and  myself  rendered  her  an 
essential  service,  for  which  she  is  not  un- 
grateful. She  is  a  most  noble  and  tender- 
hearted woman,  and  she  has  suffered  deeply ; 
so  she  will  sympathize  with  you.  If  she 
invites  you  to  make  your  home  at  Dinsmore 
Castle,  accept,  if  you  wish,  and  do  not  feel 
under  any  obligation,  as  it  will  be  a  pleasure 
to  her  to  repay  in  this  way  what  she  consid- 
ers a  debt  of  gratitude.  She  has  only  one 
daughter,  a  few  years  younger  than  your- 
self, who  is  an  invalid,  but  amiable  and  in- 
telligent. I  hope  you  will  become  friends; 
ani  in  your  future  intercourse  with  Lady 
Dinsmore  I  am  sure  you  will  learn  to  love 
her  as  much  as  I  esteem  and  respect  her." 

"  Certainly  I  shall,  papa;  I  have  always 
•wished  to  know  her,  and  I  can  form  some 
id^a  of  her  character  by  her  letttrs,  which 
you  have  often  read  to  me ;  she  must  be  a 
very  sweet,  gentle  person  ;  but  who  can  take 
your  place  in  my  heart  V  "  she  cried,  with  a 
sudden  burst  of  emotion.  "  Who  can  fill 
the  void  in  my  life  after  you  are  gone  ?  " 

"  It  is  true,  my  child,  no  one  can  be  to 
you  the  same  as  your  father.  No  earthly 
friend  can  love  you  as  he  does ;  but  I  leave 
you  in  the  care  of  One  whose  love  exceeds 
my  own.  May  you  be  worthy  of  the  hujh 
inheritance  he  has  prepared  for  you  !  Fol- 
low, as  you  ever  have,  the  dictates  of  your 
conscience,  and  you  will  learn  that  happi- 
ness does  not  always  come  with  the  roali/.a- 
tion  of  our  earthly  desires,  but  rather  that 
the  truest  peace  is  born  of  the  sacrifice  of 
self." 

"  Yes,  papa,"  she  said,  with  tears  in  her 
voice ;  "  I  am  beginning  to  understand  it. 
We  are  all  dull  scholars,  and  it  is  a  les- 
son difficult  to  learn ;  I  often  wonder  why  it 
is  so  easy  for  us  to  follow  the  selfi-li  im- 
pulses of  nature,  and  so  hard  to  deny  our- 
selves the  happiness  that  our  nobler  feel- 
ings tell  us  was  not  created  for  our  good. 
But  do  not  let  us  talk  fo  sadly.  See  what 
a  glorious  sunset  1  How  long  the  days 
are  now,  and  how  fast  the  sun  goes  north  I 
It  already  shines  on  the  tower  of  Helms- 


18 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


ford  at  sotting.  Do  you  remember,  when  I 
was  very  little,  you  used  to  tell  me  that  by 
the  touch  of  gold  on  the  tallest  tower  I  could 
always  know  spring  had  returned?  "  She 
paused,  and  looked  long  and  earnestly  on 
the  massive  turrets  flooded  with  yellow 
light.  "  Papa/'  she  said  at  length,  "  who 
is  the  next  heir  to  Hebnsford  after  Mr.  Van- 
deleur  ?  " 

"  I  think  Lady  Dinsmore  must  be,"  he 
replied,  "  for  her  mother  was  a  Vandeleur, 
and  in  default  of  male  heirs  it  goes  to  the 
nearest  heiress." 

"  Strange,  and  Lady  Dinsmore  has  no  sons ; 
you  say  she  is  kind  and  charitable,  papa ;  if 
she  ever  came  in  possession,  how  much  good 
she  might  do ;  the  parish  needs  so  much  a  lady 
at  Helmsford."  She  sighed,  and  fell  again 
into  deep  thought ;  "  And  it  might  have  been 
my  home.  I  might  have  passed  my  life  there, 
beloved  and  honored.  This  happiness  was 
within  my  reach,  but  with  my  own  hand  J 
put  it  away  from  me ;  but  I  did  right,  and 
at  last  peace  will  come,  if  not  joy." 

"  Now,  papa,"  she  said,  trying  to  throw  a 
little  cheerfulness  into  her  voice,  "  you  are 
looking  tired ;  lean  against  me  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  we  will  watch  the  sun  until  it  is  en- 
tirely gone  ;  then  I  shall  ring  for  Thomas  to 
help  you  to  bed.  I  fear  you  have  sat  up  tco 
long,  and  talkec.  ircre  than  an  invalid  ought." 

He  leaned  his  weary  head  against  her 
shoulder,  and  watched  the  sun  sink  calmly 
to  rest,  —  as  calmly  as  he  was  drifting 
from  time  into  eternity.  The  golden  por- 
tals had  closed  upon  the  god  of  day,  the 
shadows  and  darkness  gathered  around  him, 
but  soon,  soon  he  should  see  the  refulgent 
light  of  a  new  morn,  and  rest  forever  in  its 
glory. 

Such  thoughts  as  these  passed  through 
his  mind  as  he  turned,  with  a  peaceful 
smile,  .and  kissed  his  daughter,  saying,  with 
more  than  his  wonted  tenderness,  "  Good 
night,  and  God  bless  you,  my  child." 

It  was  the  last  time  he  ever  sat  at  the 
west  window,  the  last  time  he  ever  saw  the 
sun  sink  behind  the  towers  of  Helmsford. 

A  few  weeks  later  Constance  wrote  the 
following  letter  to  Lady  Dinsmore  :  — 

"  MY  BEAR  FRIEND,  —  I  trust  you  will 
kindly  pardon  me  for  my  seeming  inattention 
to  your  tender  and  comforting  letter,  but  since 
my  dear  father's  death  I  have  been  so  bewil- 
dered and  stupefied  by  grief  as  to  be  almost 
incapable  of  the  least  mental  exertion.  Dear- 
ly as  I  loved  him,  necessary  as  I  knew  him 
to  be  to  my  happiness,  I  never  imagined  the 
utter  emptiness  of  my  life  without  him. 
One  by  one  those  so  dear  to  me  have  been 
taken  away,  and  now,  indeed,  I  feel  the 
entire  desolation  of  a  life  from  which  all 
natural  support  and  protection  have  fallen, 
and  1  stand  appalled  and  trembling  on  the 


threshold  of  a  future  that  stretches  drearily 
before  me.  I  am  young  in  years,  but  al- 
ready I  seem  to  have  drained  to  the  very 
dregs  the  cup  of  sorrow  ;  and  though  I  have 
scarcely  known  happiness,  and  life  has  not 
fulfilled  its  promise,  yet  so  weary  am  I  that 
I  shrink  from  any  further  acquaintance 
with  the  future,  and  cannot  forbear  com- 
plaining that  I  have  not  been  taken  with 
the  others.  Do  not  deem  these  the  first  weak 
complainings  of  an  undisciplined  spirit,  of  an 
untutored  will.  No,  since  my  early  child- 
hood I  have  been  taught  in  the  school  of 
sorrow,  and  like  my  dear  father  I  have  tried 
to  learn  resignation  to  the  Divine  will.  Nev- 
ertheless, I  feel  that  I  have  accomplished 
but  half  of  my  work ;  I  must  live  and 
strive  for  something  beyond  the  selfish  in- 
dulgence of  my  grief.  Like  one  standing 
on  the  confines  of  two  worlds,  I  mus t  live 
fcr  one,  I  must  cor.quer  the  other.  I  must 
karn  to  bear  the  will  of  God  patiently,  and 
without  leaving  earth  must  understand  that 
heaven  is  my  promised  inheritance,  and  that 
present  happiness  is  not  the  only  supreme 
good  to  which  we  may  aspire.  Often,  alter 
hcurs  of  the  deepest  discouragement  anil  de- 
jection, there  succeed  a  few  moments  of 
calm,  or  rather  of  spiritual  exaltation,  when 
my  heart  is  filled  with  a  joy  impossible  to 
describe.  Sometimes,  as  if  separated  from 
myself,  my  soul  springs  with  a  bcund  into 
the  regions  of  eternal  beauty,  of  which  all 
that  exists  is  but  a  faint  anel  imperfect  copy. 
Again,  illumined  by  a  prophetic  light,  time 
disappears,  the  veil  falls,  and  I  sec  far  into 
the  future ;  a  soul  pure,  free,  and  happy, 
healed  from  all  earth's  ills,  seems  to  float  in 
the  presence  of  God  as  a  birel  in  the  air. 
Then  I  ask  myself  why  I  should  sink  into 
dark  despair  when  such  happiness  is  attain- 
able, whzn  I  am  immortal,  and  life  all  too 
short  to  prepare  for  my  eternal  future. 

"  Mercifully  Time  heals  the  bleeding 
wounds  of  our  hearts ;  and  although  the 
scars  remain,  they  remind  us  that  we  have 
suffered,  and  they  may  serve  to  teach  us  hu- 
mility. 

"  I  have  lived  until  now  in  the  narrow 
circle  of  my  own  home,  sheltered  and  pro- 
tected by  the  gentle  love  of  my  father.  I 
know  nothing  of  the  world  save  what  books 
have  taught  me  ;  now  I  desire  to  enter  the 
arena  and  see  for  myself  the  conflict  men 
call  life.  My  future  plans  are  fixed.  I 
have  decided  to  travel  for  some  time,  to 
seek  in  change  of  scene  and  climate  health 
for  my  sick  and  suffering  heart.  1  have  no 
ties  to  bind  me  to  England,  only  the  graves 
of  those  I  love.  Distance  will  soften  my 
sorrow  and  clothe  the  sod  that  covers  them 
with  a  more  tender  green,  as  Time  flinjj.s  his 
mantle  of  ivy  over  the  rough  and  crumbling 
ruin,  hiding  the  harsh  outlines  beneath  its 
graceful  beauty. 


WOVEN    OF  MANY   THREADS. 


19 


"  I  cannot  express  Low  deeply  the  tender 
sympathy  of  your  letter  has  touched  my 
heart,  nor  can  I  sufficiently  thank  you  for 
your  kind  offer  of  a  home  at  Dinsmore  Cas- 
tle. Believe  me,  my  dear  friend,  it  would 
not  be  best  at  present.  Nothing  but  an 
entire  change  of  country  and  climate  can 
arouse  me  from  the  lethargy  into  which  I 
have  sunk  since  my  dear  papa's  death.  My 
friend  and  companion,  Madame  Landel,  will 
always  remain  with  me  ;  it  was  my  father's 
wish,  and  it  is  also  mine.  She  has  trav- 
elled much  in  foreign  countries,  and  her  ex- 
perience will  be  invaluable.  We  propose 
to  pass  the  summer  in  France,  and  the  fol- 
lowing winter  in  Italy.  Where  I  shall  then 
wander,  circumstances  will  determine. 
Would  not  a  winter  in  the  south  of  Italy  be 
beneficial  to  the  health  of  your  daughter  ? 
Why  not  arrange  to  come  abroad  also  ? 
Before  I  leave  England,  which  will  be  in  a 
few  weeks,  I  shall  write  to  you  further  de- 
tails respecting  my  intended  journey,  and  in 
the  mean  time  I  hope  you  will  have  decided 
to  act  upon  my  suggestion,  as  the  society  of 
one  for  whom  my  dear  papa  had  so  deep  an 
esteem  and  affection  would  add  greatly  to 
my  happiness  during  my  absence.  Never- 
theless, if  I  cannot  enjoy  that  pleasure,  may 
I  be  allowed  to  hope  for  a  regular  corre- 
spondence, as  your  counsel  and  advice  will 
always  be  a  favor  beyond  expression  ? 

"  With  many  kind  regards  toyourdaugh- 
"  ter,  whom  I  hope  soon  to  know  personally, 
and  heartfelt  thanks  for  your  affectionate  in- 
terest in  me,  believe  me  gratefully  yours, 

"  CON'STAXCE  WlLBREIIAJI. 
"  To  LADY  DIXSMORE,  Dinsraore  Castle." 

Early  in  June  Constance  had  concluded 
her  arrangements,  and  was  about  to  leave 
forever  the  home  where  she  had  suffered 
and  wept  and  smiled  under  the  wing  of  the 
white  angel  called  Peace.  But  it  was  all 
finished  now.  Every  record  of  the  past 
was  to  be  re-read  under  foreign  skies  and 
among  strange  scenes.  She  would  no  more 
walk  the  shady  garden  paths,  where  her 
heart  had  thrilled  and  trembled  with  joy  at 
the  first  sweet  words  of  passionate  love. 
Forevermore  to  her  those  scenes  must  be 
only  as  a  warm  bright  picture  or  a  tender 
dream,  whose  beauty  and  grace  would  haunt 
her  memory  with  magic  power.  The  rooms 
where  she  had  sat  at  her  father's  feet  while 
she  studied,  read,  or  talked  as  he  smoothed 
with  gentle  hand  her  hair,  or  whispered 
some  tender  word  of  affection ;  the  west 
window,  where  she  had  watched  with  him 
fur  the  la<t  time  the  sunset,  while  his  dear 
head  rested  on  her  shoulder ;  the  nursery, 
where  she  had  passed  her  baby  years,  the 
pet  and  plaything  of  her  brother  and 
sister ;  the  old  church,  where,  nearly  every 
Sabbath  of  her  life,  she  had  heard  his  serious, 


impressive  voice  from  the  pulpit ;  and,  more 
than  all,  the  dear  graves,  over  which  she  had 
wept  with  the  uncontrollable  passionate  sobs 
of  a  child,  and  later  with  the  deep,  subdued 
grief  of  a  woman,  —  all  these  she  mur-t 
leave,  and  perhaps  forever.  For  who  of  us 
can  tell,  if  we  go  forth  in  the  morning, 
whether  we  shall  return  at  night  ? 

With  a  terrible  sinking  of  the  heart  she 
watched  each  familiar  scene  fade  from  her 
sight  as  she  leaned  from  the  carriage  win- 
dow, aad  she  turned  to  Madame  Landel, 
saying,  with  a  sob,  "  Farewell,  dear,  dear 
home  !  Where  shall  I  find  a  love  so  tender 
and  true,  so  patient  and  wise,  as  I  have 
known  here?  Ah,  my  heart  is  breaking 
because  I  know  it  can  never  be  mine  again." 

"Patience,  dear,  patience;  God  only  knows 
the  future,"  said  Madame  Landel,  tenderly 
clasping  the  hand  of  the  weeping  girl. 
"  When  you  return,  you  may  be  happier 
than  your  imagination  ever  pictured  even 
in  your  most  peaceful  moments." 


I 


CHAPTER  X. 

CHATEAU   LE   COMPTE. 

N  Paris,  near  the  Champs  Elysees,  at  the 
corner  of  the  Rue  de stands  an  an- 
tique, irregular  pile  of  buildings,  which  was 
once,  before  Paris  had  extended  itself  to 
Passy,  the  maison  de  campayne  of  the  Dukes 
du  Compte.  At  one  time  it  had  been  sur- 
rounded by  gardens  and  parks,  which  had 
gradually  disappeared  to  swell  the  number 
of  boulevards  and  streets  in  that  vicinity. 
However,  there  yet  remained  enough  to 
make  a  most  charming  modern  garden,  and 
the  passer-by  never  dreamed  that  behind 
the  rude,  time-stained  pile,  with  its  little 
windows  and  forbidding  gate,  was  a  spot 
of  rural  loveliness  seldom  found  in  a  city 
like  Paris.  Above  the  ponderous  door, 
thickly  studded  with  iron  spikes  and  bars, 
was  a  stone  entablature  still  bearing  the 
family  coat  of  arms,  with  the  name  "  Chateau 
le  Compte,"  and  underneath  hung  a  neat 
black  sign,  on  which  was  painted  in  white 
letters,  Pension  Antjlaite. 

One  afternoon  in  June,  when  the  sun  threw 
the  long  shadow  of  the  Arc  de  Triomphe 
down  the  Champs  Elysees,  and  the  gay, 
brilliant  throng  passed  out  of  that  sh:idow 
into  the  beauty  and  brightness  of  the  Hois 
de  Boulogne,  a  travelling  carriage  drew  up 
before  the  gate  of  the  Chateau  le  Compte, 
and  Constance  Wilbreham  looked  with 
something  like  misgiving  at  the  gloomy 
entrance.  While  the,  servant  pulled  at  the 
iron  chain  which  served  for  a  bell-rope,  she 
-aid  to  Madame  Landel,  "  What  a  dismal- 
looking  place  !  It  seems  to  me  like  a 


20 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


prison.  What  ever  could  induce  any  one 
to  advise  us  to  come  here  ?  I  am  sure  I 
shall  not  like  it." 

"  Wait,  my  dear,  until  the  gate  is  open. 
You  have  no  idea  how  much  beauty  is 
hidden  behind  these  uninviting  exteriors, 
especially  in  France,  and  then  you  know 
we  have  already  written  to  engage  our 
rooms." 

While  Madame  was  speaking  a  good- 
natured  face  appeared  at  the  grating.  The 
coup  d'ceii  seemed  satisfactory,  for  in  a 
moment,  as  if  by  magic,  the  great  portal 
swung  open  and  displayed  a  scene  of  beauty 
which  caused  an  involuntary  exclamation  of 
delight  from  Constance.  A  smoothly  paved 
court,  with  statues,  flowers,  and  fountains, 
hospitable-looking  doors  right  and  left,  and 
beyond  a  sunny  vista  of  garden. 

In  a  moment  several  white-aproned  ser- 
vants bustled  out  to  attend  to  the  luggage, 
and  Constance  was  met  at  the  door  by  a 
tall,  elegant-looking  woman,  who  smiled 
kindly,  and  said,  in  an  exceedingly  refined 
and  sweet  voice,  "Miss  Wilbreham  and 
Madame  Landel,  I  presume?  Allow  me  10 
show  you  to  your  rooms  myself;  they  are 
all  prepared,  and  I  hope  you  will  find 
them  comfortable  and  pleasant." 

Constance  returned,  with  many  thanks, 
the  kind  greeting  of  the  lady,  whom  she  at 
once  understood  to  be  Madame  de  Marc,  the 
proprietress  of  the  pension.  The  daughter 
of  a  poor  English  clergyman,  she  had 
married  a  French  officer,  who  left  her  at 
his  death  no  other  resource  than  to  become 
a  governess,  or  open  a  pension ;  she  pre- 
ferred the  latter,  and  finding  the  Chateau 
le  Compte  to  let,  furnished,  she  hired  it,  and 
established  herself  most  satisfactorily,  mat- 
ing her  house  a  home  to  her  patrons,  as  well 
as  a  comfortable  and  orderly  pension. 

Constance'  followed  her  up  a  flight  of 
polished  oak  stairs,  to  a  pretty  suite  of 
rooms  overlooking  the  garden,  which  in- 
deed promised  to  be  both  pleasant  and  com- 
fortable. 

"  We  dine  at  seven,  table  d'hole,  and  it  is 
now  six,"  said  Madame  de  Marc,  looking  at 
her  watch.  "  Perhaps  you  would  prefer  din- 
ing in  your  room  to-day,  as  you  must  be 
very  tired  after  your  journey ;  if  so,  you  can 
be  served  here.  But  use  no  ceremony,  we 
are  quite  enfamille,  —  thirty  persons ;  rath- 
er a  large  number,  to  •  be  sure,  but  all 
agreeable  acquaintances." 

Constance  thanked  her,  saying  they  would 
prefer  dining  alone  for  that  day,  but  after 
dinner  they  would  take  a  turn  in  the  gar- 
den, when  they  hoped  to  meet  some  of  her 
family. 

Madame  Landel  was  already  busy  open- 
ing the  boxes  and  arranging  the  ward- 
robes. 

Constance  leaned  from  the  window  and 


inhaled  a  delicious  breath  of  flower-perfumed 
air,  which,  after  the  hot,  dusty  carriage,  was 
most  refreshing.  She  heard  the  "merry 
voices  of  men  and  wo:r.en  talking  in  the 
garden  below,  and  caught  glimpses  of  white 
dresses  flitting  to  and  fro  among  the  trees. 
There  was  something  homelike  and  cheerful 
in  the  surroundings,  that  soothed  her  weary 
heart  and  brain. 

"  Is  it  not  a  delightful  spot  ?  "  she  said  to 
Madame  Landel  as  they  seated  themselves  to 
a  delicate,  well-cooked  French  dinner.  "  I 
already  feel  as  though  I  should  be  contented 
to  pass  some  months  here ;  and  this  garden, 
is  it  not  charming?  I  am  so  glad  to  be 
among  trees  and  flowers  ;  they  remind  me  of 
dear  Helmsfbrd." 

The  tears  started  again  to  her  eyes,  for 
she  had  wept  almost  constantly  during  their 
journey,  and  her  friend  felt  the  necessity  of 
directing  her  thoughts,  if  possible,  to  some 
new  channel.  .  Here  she  would  at  least  have 
young  and  cheerful  society,  and  the  amuse- 
ments and  sight-seeing  of  the  gayest  city  in 
the  world  would  so  divert  and  occupy  her 
as  to  leave  her  little  time  to  brood  over  her 
sorrow  ;  so  it  was  with  something  like  satis- 
faction in  her  voice  that  Madame  Landel  re- 
plied, "  Yes,  my  dear,  it  is  all  very  pretty  and 
pleasant.  You  know  I  have  always  told  you 
Paris  was  the  most  charming  city  in  the 
world^and  I  am  sure  you  will  entirely  agree 
with  me  after  you  have  passed  a  few  months 
here." 

An  hour  after,  when  the  long  June  day 
was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  the  sun  threw 
golden  arrows  at  random  among  the  trees,  — 
quivering,  dusky,  golden  arrows,  that  trem- 
bled, fainted,  and  fell  in  soft  shadows  above 
the  nests  of  tender  birds  singing  their  ves- 
pers of  love  ere  they  folded  their  tiny  wings 
for  ,-leep,  Constance  satin  alittle  arbor  under 
some  flowering  acacias  and  clustering  roses, 
talking  calmly  but  sadly  with  Madame  de 
Marc  of  her  recent  bereavement,  for  the 
kind-hearted  woman  felt  irresistibly  drawn 
toward  the  sorrowful  and  lovely  young 
stranger.  Suddenly  they  Avere  interrupted 
by  the  sound  of  a  clear  musical  voice  call- 
ing, "  Madame,  Madame,  where  have  you 
hidden  yourself?  I  want  you  directly  !  " 

"  I  am  here,  dear,"  replied  Madame,  smil- 
ing ;  and  then,  turning  to  Constance,  she 
said, "  Here  she  comes,  —  our  beauty,  we  call 
her." 

Constance  raised  her  eyes  and  saw  stand- 
ing before  her  a  form  that  realized  Tenny- 
son's dream  of  fair  women,  — 

A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 
And  most  divinely  fair." 

"  Miss  Wilbreham,  allow  me  to  present  to 
you  Mrs.  Tremaine,  a  compatriot  of  yours," 
said  Madame  de  Marc. 

Constance,  who  was  rather  cold  in  her 
manner,  gave  her  hand  with  unusual  warmth 


WOVEN   OF   MANY  THREADS. 


21 


to  the  lovely  creature,  who  took  it,  with 
many  protestations  of   delight  at  making 
the  acquaintance  of  one  who  promised  to  be 
such  an  agreeable  addition  to  their  party. 
"  And  now,  dear  Madame,  since  I  have  inter- 
rupted your  tele-a-tele"  she  said,  gayly,  " I 
must   tell   you  why  I   have  done  so.     Mr. 
Carnegie  has  just  received  tickets  for  the 
opera,  and  as  it  is  the  last  night  of  Alboni  i 
I  am  crazy  to  go,  but  I  shall  not  go  without  j 
you;  indeed,  I  shall  take  no  refusal,  you  I 
must  accompany  me,"  she  insisted,  with  a  j 
pretty  air  of  authority.     "  Miss  Wilbreham  [ 
will  excuse  you  for  this  evening  " ;  and,  put- 
ting her  arm  around  Madame  de  Marc,  she 
attempted  to  draw  her  away. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Constance,  "  I  was  just 
decided  to  go  in,  as  the  dew  is  falling ;  and, 
indeed,  I  am  so  weary  that  I  shall  retire  al- 
most immediately." 

The  three  lad'ies  walked  down  the  long 
shadowy  gardan  path  together,  and  they 
made  a  fair  picture  as  they  went,  for  nothing 
human  could  be  fairer  than  Helen  Tremaine. 
Tall,  but  beautifully  proportioned,  a  slender 
waist,  full  bust,  shoulders  and  arms  like  a 
Greek  statue,  a  small  head  heavy  with 
masses  of  golden  blonde  hair,  skin  white  I 
and  pink  as  the  sea-shell,  eyes  grayish- 1 
green  with  long  dark  lashes,  nose  slightly  j 
retrou^e,  and  pouting,  smiling  mouth,  —  all  j 
these  charms,  joined  to  manners  careless 
and  gay  as  a  child's,  made  her  the  idol  of 
*  those  who  loved  her,  and  the  innocent  vic- 
tim of  the  envious  and  malignant.  She  had 
been  two  years  in  the  pension  of  Madame 
de  Marc,  but  who  she  was  and  .whence 
she  came  few  knew.  That  she  was  married 
was  no  secret,  but  all  concerning  her  hus- 
band was  a  profound  mystery.  She  never 
mentioned  him,  neither  did  Madame  de  Marc, 
who  seemed  to  be  acquainted  with  the  his- 
tory of  her  life;  yet  she  always  spoke  of  her 
future  quite  as  one  would  of  a  single  woman's, 
although  every  one  knew  she  was  not  a 
widow.  The  Mrs.  Grundy  of  the  establish- 
ment often  shook  her  head  dolorously  over 
her  unavailing  efforts  to  solve  the  mystery 
of  Helen  Tremaine's  life  ;  but  after  two  years 
of  wondering  and  speculating  she  was  no 
nearer  unravelling  the  knotted  skein  than  at 
the  beginning. 

The  next  day  at  dinner  Mr.  Carnegie  was 
presented  to  Constance  ;  he  was  a  tall,  pale, 
intellectual-looking  man  about  thirty,  black 
hair  and  stiff  side  beard ;  long,  straight 
nose ;  long  upper  lip ;  a  somewhat  large 
mouth ;  deep-set,  thoughtful  gray  eyes ;  and 
square,  massive  brow;  —  altogether  a  strong, 
expressive  face,  which,  in  spite  of  a  certain 
shyness  and  nervousness  of  manner,  made 
him  interesting.  He  was  Scotch,  of  good 
family,  and  rich ;  an  author,  for  he  had 
written  several  romances ;  an  amateur  musi- 
cian ;  a  lover  of  old  picture?,  old  china,  old 


cabinets,  and  other  articles  of  virlu.  He 
had  studied  much,  read  much,  travelled 
much ;  was  au  fait  on  all  subjects,  could 
converse  with  intelligence  on  mu;-ic,  art, 
and  literature,  as  well  as  the  last  race  at 
Longchamp,  the  finest  and  fastest  horses 
in  Paris  and  London,  the  beauty  of  the  last 
ballet-dancer  or  opera-singer,  the  last  style 
of  hats  and  dresses,  the  last  religious  excite- 
ment or  political  change.  In  fact,  he  was 
a  man  of  the  world.  Yet  beneath  all  was  a 
good  heart,  a  rather  eccentric  but  noble  na- 
ture, a  clear  judgment,  and  a  firm  will.  But 
in  spite  of  the  strength  and  resolution  of  his 
character  he  loved  with  "  the  love  of  love  " 
Helen  Tremaine,  and  she  played  with  Elm 
in  the  same  way  a  child  would  sport  with  an 
ugly  but  faithful  dog.  She  declared  to  her- 
self a  dozen  times  a  day  that  she  hated  him, 
and  yet,  for  the  three  months  they  had  been 
almost  constantly  together,  scarcely  an  hour 
had  passed  that  she  had  not  demanded 
some  little  service  or  favor,  which  he  was 
only  too  happy  to  grant,  in  spite  of  her 
caprices. 

After  some  conversation,  Constance  learned 
that  he  was  intimately  acquainted  with  Lady 
Dinsmore. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  have  often  heard 
her  speak  of  your  father  as  one  of  her 
best  and  dearest  friends,  and  also  of  Van- 
deleur  of  Helmsford,  who,  I  believe,  is 
in  some  way  related  to  her.  By  the  way, 
did  I  not  hear  he  was  going  to  marry  a 
young  lady  at  Helmsford  and  settle  down 
at  last ;  and,  later,  some  sort  of  a  story  of 
the  engagement  being  broken  off,  and  he 
starting  suddenly  for  the  Danube  1 " 

"  It  was  quite  true,"  said  Mrs.  Rawdon, 
an  English  lady,  who  sat  near  them.  "  I 
remember,  some  nine  months  ago,  he  came 
back  to  London,  every  one  saiil  quite  a 
changed  man.  He  shunned  society,  and 
was  never  seen  in  any  of  his  old  haunts.  I 
recollect  meeting  him  one  day  in  Hyde 
Park ;  he  looked  pale  and  thin,  and  alto- 
gether very  miserable.  You  must  have 
known  something  of  the  affair,  Miss  Wil- 
breham, as  it  happened  at  Helmsford.  Can- 
not you  give  us  the  particulars  ?  " 

"I  do  remember  hearing  something  of 
the  story,  but  I  am  unable  to  give  you  any 
further  information,"  replied  Constance, 
calmly,  but  with  sudden  pallor. 

"  How  romantic  !  "  said  Mrs.  Tremaine. 
And  then  Madame  Landel  made  some  re- 
mark that  turned  the  convcisation  to  an- 
other subject. 

Very  soon  Constance,  Mrs.  Tremaine,  and 
Mr.  Carnegie,  became  almost  constant  com- 
panions. They  spent  their  days  in  riding, 
walking,  or  sight-seeing,  and  the  warm 
moonlit  June  evenings  in  sauntering  back 
and  forth  on  the  lawn,  or  sitting  under  the 
wilderness  of  roses,  listening  to  Mrs.  Tre- 


22 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


maine's  lively  conversation  or  Mr.  Carne- 
gie's more  abstruse  discussions,  which  he 
sometimes  varied  by  an  air  on  the  mando- 
lin or  guitar,  while  Helen  sang  a  light  Span- 
ish serenade,  or  passionate  Italian  romance. 

So  the  days  passed  away,  and  Constance 
was  often  surprised  at  the  interest  and 
pleasure  she  was  beginning  to  find  in  life. 
Not  that  she  had  ceased  to  mourn,  —  ah,  no ! 
—  for  often  in  the  stillness  of  night  she 
would  stifle  the  passionate  sobs  that  rose  to 
her  lips  as  she  stood  watching  from  her 
window  the  round  white  moon  rising  above 
the  lindens  and  acacias,  flooding  fountain 
and  statue  with  its  soft  white  light,  and 
turning  the  dew-wet  lawn  into  a  sheet  of 
silver  studded  with  diamonds. 

"  Oh ! "  she  thought,  "  the  throbbing  stars, 
the  serene  moon,  and  the  silent  heavens  hang 
over  the  new-made  grave  at  dear  Helms- 
ford,  and  throw  long  shadows  of  the  church- 
spire  across  the  lawn  where  I  have  so  often 
walked  with  one  who  is  now  a  lonely,  sor- 
rowful wanderer  over  the  deserts  of  the 
far  East  1 " 


CHAPTER  XL 

AM   I   TO   BLAME? 

ONE  evening  Constance  and  Mrs.  Tre- 
maine  had  wandered  away  from  the 
others,  down  a  long,  shady  walk  to  a  little 
arbor  concealed  among  the  trees,  and  over- 
hung with  ivy  and  fragrant  Paestum  roses ; 
there  they  seated  themselves  to  watch  a 
flock  of  white  doves  that  were  cooing  and 
fluttering  about  among  the  flowers,  mur- 
muring their  good-nights  to  Nature  before 
taking  flight  to  their  cot,  which  stood  near, 
half  hidden  by  the  embowering  trees. 

The  two  girls  formed  a  striking  picture 
as  they  sat  there,  relieved  by  the  rich  back- 
ground of  foliage  and  flowers,  —  Constance 
with  her  pale,  sweet  face,  dusky  hair,  and 
mourning  robes  heavy  with  crape;  Mrs. 
Tremaine,  her  waves  of  gold  tied  back  with 
a  blue  ribbon,  a  thin,  airy  white  dress  with 
innumerable  little  ruffles  of  lace,  confined  at 
the  waist  with  a  blue  sash,  a  bunch  of  scar- 
let geraniums  in  her  bosom,  and  a  scarlet 
silk  cloak  thrown  carelessly  around  her 
shoulders.  She  was  a  little  paler  than 
usualand  very  grave.  Constance  observed, 
for  several  days,  that  she  had  avoided  Mr. 
Carnegie,  and  that  he,  too,  seemed  to  be 
laboring  under  some  sudden  depression. 

"  How  serious  you  are !  "  said  Constance, 
after  a  few  moments  of  thoughtful  silence. 
"  I  did  net  know  you  were  ever  sad." 

"  Ah,  that  is  just  what  every  one  thinks," 
she  replied,  with  a  little  pettishness  in  her 
Toice.  "I  wonder  why  I  cannot  be  sad, 


few  people  have  had  more  to  make  them 
so." 

"  I  did  not  think  you  had  ever  known 
sorrow,  you  are  always  so  cheerful  and 
happy,"  said  Constance,  gently  ;  "  will  you 
not  tell  me  what  your  trouble  is  ?  Perhaps  my 
sympathy  may  be  a  little  consolation  to  you. 
I  have  been  well  taught  in  the  hard  school 
of  disappointment,  and  I  can  understand  the 
suffering  human  heart  better  than  many." 

"  You  are  very  good,  dear,"  Helen  re- 
plied ;  "  but,  after  all,  it  is  not  so  very 
serious  a  matter.  Only  that  stupid  Mr. 
Carnegie  must  fancy  himself  in  love  with 
me ;  and  because  I  cannot  return  his  love 
he  imagines  he  is  very  miserable,  and  so 
mopes  and  looks  melancholy,  and  that  I 
cannot  endure." 

"  How  wrong  !  "  exclaimed  Constance,  in 
a  tone  of  reproof.  "  How  can  you  trifle 
with  the  deep,  true  love  in  a  human  heart? 
You  are  wrong,  believe  me,  you  are  wrong." 

"  Am  I  to  blame  ?  "  she  inquired,  scorn- 
fully, —  "  am  I  to  blame  because  he  has 
been  such  a  goose  as  to  fall  in  love  with 
me  ?  I  never  encouraged  him,  —  never  I 
O,  men  are  such  difficult  things  to  manage  ! 
Just  as  you  get  well  acquainted  with  them, 
and  fancy  you  have  taught  them  the  beauty 
of  a  Platonic  affection,  they  suddenly  assume 
the  character  of  lovers,  and  so  are  no  longer 
useful.  J  am  dreadfully  sorry,  for  Mr.  Car- 
negie was  so  useful.  Now  I  can  never  ask 
him  to  do  any  more  little  commissions  for 
me." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  understand  your  own 
heart  ?  Are  you  sure  you  do  not  love  him  ?  " 
inquired  Constance,  with  some  anxiety  in 
her  voice ;  "  I  believe  under  all  this  badi- 
nage there  is  some  deeper  feeling ;  and  per- 
haps you  really  love  him." 

"  Love  him !  No  indeed,  that  I  do  not ! 
I  love  him  as  a  friend,  nothing  more.  I 
know  dear  Madame  de  Marc  desires  this 
marriage ;  but  for  all  I  love  her,  and  wish 
to  please  her,  and  my  own  worldly  wisdom 
tells  me  it  is  a  desirable  alliance,  yet  nothing 
will  ever  induce  me  to  marry  again  a  man  I 
do  not  love.  I  have  had  one  experience," 
she  said,  with  a  touch  of  pathos  in  her  voice ; 
"  I  know  the  horror  of  a  marriage  without 
love.  No,  nothing  Avill  ever  induce  me  to 
take  such  a  step  again.  I  will  tell  you,"  she 
continued;  "I  don't  mind  telling  you,  you 
are  so  good,  and  I  know  you  will  not  repeat 
what  I  say.  I  keep  my  secret  close  enough 
from  the  charitable  old  spinsters  in  the 
house,  for  I  would  rather  be  torn  to  pieces 
by  rat  than  to  fall  into  the  merciless  hands 
of  these  amiable  creatures  of  uncertain  age. 

"  My  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  poor 
country  curate  and  the  widow  of  a  spend- 
thrift English  officer.  I  was  the  eldest  of 
five  daughters,  and  the  beauty  of  the  family ; 
and  as  my  father  left  us  no  inheritance  but 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


his  debts,  it  was  expected  that  I,  by  my 
marriage,  should  rescue  them  all  from  pov- 
erty. It  was  always  dinned  in  my  ears, 
'  Helen,  you  must  marry  young,  and  you 
must  marry  a  ricii  man,'  until  I  began  to 
look  upon  myself  as  a  chattel  to  be  sold  for 
the  benefit  of  the  others,  and  so  accepted 
my  fate  with  an  uncomplaining  sort  of  in- 
difference. When  I  was  nineteen  I  was 
sent  to  London  to  be  exhibited  and  sold  to 
the  highest  bidder.  At  the  house  of  a 
friend  1  met  Mr.  Tremaine,  — a  rich  banker, 
a  stern,  taciturn  man,  and  old  enough  to  be 
my  father.  I  need  not  say  that  from  the 
first  he  was  repulsive  to  me;  yet  the  mar- 
riage was  arranged  to  take  place  in  three 
mouths.  The  more  1  saw  of  this  man,  the 
more  I  detested  him ;  I  felt  a  strange  fear 
and  horror  of  him*;  there  was  something  in 
his  regard  that  froze  my  blood,  and  if  he 
laid  his  hand  upon  me  1  felt  like  screaming 
or  going  into  convulsions.  Yet  I  knew  I 
must  accept  my  fate,  that  complaints  were 
useless,  and  God  only  knows  how  I  tried  to 
conquer  my  dislike.  It  was  only  a  few 
days  before  my  marriage,  when  one  after- 
noon as  I  sat  alone  in  the  drawing-room, 
sadly  thinking  of  my  hopeless  future,  a  vis- 
itor was  announced.  Jt  was  a  young  gentle- 
man whom  I  had  met  much  in  society  during 
the  season,  and  who  had  formed  a  warm 
attachment  for  me.  '  Ah,'  he  said. '  I  am  glad 
to  find  you  alone,  for  I  wish  to  speak  with  you 
on  an  important  matter.  Accept  what  I 
shall  say  to  you  as  a  proof  of  my  deep  inter- 
est in  your  future  happiness,  and  I  Beseech 
you  to  consider  well  the  importance  of  my 
communication.  Do  you  know  there  is 
insanity  in  the  family  of  the  man  you  are 
about  to  marry,  that  two  brothers  have 
lately  died  in  an  asylum  ?  and  many  say  — 
and  persons  who  know  him  intimately  — 
that  Mr.  Tremaine  has  recently  shown  un- 
mistakable signs  of  mental  aberration.' 

" '  O  my  God ! '  I  cried, '  is  this  true  ?  Then, 
indeed,  my  worst  fears  are  confirmed;  I 
have  felt  it ;  I  have  known  it ! '  I  thanked 
the  gentleman  for  his  friendly  interference, 
and  promised  to  listen  to  his  timely  warning. 
That  night  my  mother  and  sisters  arrived 
to  witness  mylhcvifice.  I  was  to  be  married 
from  the  house  of  my  friend  in  London,  and 

S)  directly  to  a  magnificent  mansion  in 
ryanstone  Square ;  the  settlements  were 
all  arranged  with  princely  liberality,  the 
presents  were  not  unworthy  the  nuptials  of 
a  queen.  Everything  exactly  suited  the 
ambition  of  my  mother,  who,  when  I  knelt 
before  her,  and  laid  my  head  upon  her  lap, 
pouring  out  the  story  of  this  odious  dis- 
covery and  my  horror  of  the  marriage,  only 
refused  to  listen,  declaring  it  to  be  the 
malignant  slander  of  an  interested  party. 
I  saw  it  was  useless  ;  I  must  submit.  I  was 
too  weak  to  stem  the  tide  of  opposition,  and 


the  marriage  must  take  place.  At  times  I 
resolved  to  put  an  end  to  my  miserable 
existence ;  again,  to  fly  before  the  fatal  day, 
and  conceal  myself  in  some  secluded  spot. 
But  at  that  time  I  had  not  strength  of  char- 
acter to  put  either  resolve  into  execution. 
So  I  drifted  on  helplessly  to  the  hour  of  my 
sacrifice.  It  was  finished,  and  1  was  in- 
stalled mistress  of  my  noble  maiii-inn. 

"  Whether  my  husband,  knowing  the 
wrong  he  had  done  me,  and  wishing  to  atone 
in  some  measure,  acted  from  gt.'neroi-ity 
1  cannot  say,  but  he  insisted  that  my  mother 
and  sisters  should  make  their  home  with  me. 
For  them  all  was  arranged  satisfactorily, 
but  for  me,  poor  victim,  how  can  1  describe 
my  fear,  my  horror  and  agcny,  when  1  was 
left  alone  with  that  man,  who-e  every  pecu- 
liarity I  magnified  into  madness '?  Of  course, 
my  misery  exaggerated  the  evil.  Though 
my  mother,  sisters,  and  friends  pretended 
to  be  blind  to  the  fact,  he  was  even  at  that 
time  the  victim  of  the  first  symptoms  of  in- 
sanity. A  week  passed  away,  and  I  could 
endure  my  terrible  situation  no  longer;  real 
necessity  gave  me  strength. 

"  One  morning,  alter  having  passed  a 
night  of  indescribable  horror,  I  determined 
to  leave  him.  Madame  de  Marc  was  the 
daughter  of  uiy  father's  dearest  friend;  with 
her  I  resolved  to  seek  a  home  and  protection. 
Before  night  I  was  on  my  way  to  Paris.  I 
left  a  letter  tor  my  husband  on  his  dressing- 
table,  telling  him  of  my  true  feelings,  en- 
treating him  not  to  follow  me,  and  recom- 
mending to  his  kindness  my  mother  and 
sisters.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  suffered, 
even  after  I  found  myself  free  from  his  pres- 
ence. I  felt  there  was  no  further  hope  nor 
aim  for  me  in  life,  and  all  that  remained 
was  to  lie  down,  fold  my  hands,  and  sink 
into  the  forgetfulness  of  the  grave. 

"  You  wonder  my  face  bears  no  signs  of 
my  suffering.  I  was  young,  and  the  strueirle 
was  brief.  Like  the  sapling  on  the  hillside, 
1  bent  while  the  storm  passed  over  me,  and 
when  the  calm  came  I  raised  my  head 
again  and  looked  to  Heaven.  Ah,  but  the 
memory  still  remains  !  It  is  two  years  since, 
and  I  cannot  think  of  it  nowwithout  a  shudder. 
Whether  it  was  that  the  disease  had  already 
made  rapid  progress  or  from  disappointment 
caused  by  my  sudden  flight  I  cannot  say. 
In  less  than  three  weeks  alter  my  marriane 
my  husband  was  carried  to  the  same  asylum 
where  his  brothers  had  died  hopelessly  in- 
sane. My  mother  and  sisters  went  back  to 
their  poverty  and  seclusion,  and  I  have  re- 
mained here  ever  since.  A  year  aj;o,  a 
lawyer  in  London,  a  friend  of  our  family,  at 
the  instigation  of  my  mother,  petit iniud  that 
my  marriage  might  be  annulled  by  an  act 
of  Parliament,  which,  in  consideration  of 
my  youth,  and  the  sad  circumstance,  was 
granted,  and  1  was  allowed  the  income,'  my 


24 


WOVEN   OF   MANY  THREADS. 


husband  settled  upon  me,  which  I  divide 
•with  my  mother  and  sisters. 

"  Now  you  have  heard  my  miserable  his- 
tory, do  you  think  me  to  blame  that  I  will 
not  marry  a  man  I  do  not  love  ?  To  think 
of  it,"  she  said,  with  a  shudder,  "brings 
back  all  the  old  suffering.  I  like  Mr.  Car- 
negie, I  respect  him,  but  I  do  not  love  him. 
Am  I  to  blame  that  I  do  not  love  him  ?  " 

"  No,  certainly,"  replied  Constance,  "  you 
are  not  to  blame.  The  human  heart  is 
a  mystery  few  can  understand  ;  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  control  it  and  teach  it  submission. 
Let  me  advise  you  to  tell  Mr.  Carnegie 
honestly  your  true  sentiments,  and  if  he  is 
the  noble  man  I  believe  him  to  be,  he  will 
not  be  the  less  your  friend  because  he  can- 
not be  your  lover.  Now  let  us  go  in.  The 
sun  has  set,  and  the  stars  are  already  shin- 
ing like  diamonds  on  the  brow  of  night. 
They  teach  us,  even  in  the  hours  of  darkness 
and  distrust,  that  there  are  gleams  of  God's 
mercy  mingled  with  all." 

They  arose  and,  arm  linked  in  arm,  saun- 
tered slowly  towards  the  house.  Entering 
the  principal  garden  walk,  they  saw  Mr. 
Carnegie  pacing  back  and  forth,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  him,  his  head  bent,  and  his 
whole  air  sad  and  preoccupied.  In  a  mo- 
ment Helen  was  at  his  side,  her  lovely  face 
aglow,  and  her  eyes  beaming  with  earnest 
sympathy. 

"  O  Mr.  Carnegie,"  she  said,  "  I  am  very 
unhappy  to  sse  you  so  sad.  Let  us  forget 
the  miserable  conversation  of  the  other  day, 
and  be  the  same  as  before.  I  so  much  need 
your  friendship ;  but  indeed  I  can  love 
you  only  as  a  friend,  a  brother.  Do  not 
ask  anything  more  from  me,  for  I  cannot 
love  you,  and  yet  I  cannot  be  happy  with- 
out your  friendship ! " 

"  You  have  my  deepest,  truest  friendship, 
Helen,"  he  replied,  taking  both  her  hands, 
and  looking  with  intense  love  into  the  clear 
eyes  raised  to  him.  "  Yes,  I  am  too  happy 
if  I  can  be  even  so  much  to  you  as  a  friend. 
I  will  forget  what  has  passed,  and  never  re- 
fer to  it  again.  Only  command  me.  My 
greatest  pleasure  is  to  be  at  your  service." 

"  Wei),  then,"  she  said,  passing  her  arm 
through  his  in  her  free,  childish  way,  "  now 
you  are  very  good,  and  your  old  self.  Do 
you  know  Madame  de  Marc  has  decided  to 
accompany  us  to  Fontainebleau  for  a  week  ? 
and  we  go  to-morrow;  but  we  cannot  go 
without  you.  Say  you  will  make  one  of  the 
party." 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it ;  but  of  whom 
is  the  party  composed  ?  " 

"  Only  Miss  Wilbreha-m  and  Madame 
Landel,  Madame  de  Marc  and  me.  Are 
these  a  sufficient  inducement  ? "  she  in- 
quired with  a  shy  little  laugh. 

The  next  day  they  all  arrived  at  Fontaine- 
bleau in  excellent  spirits.  Even  Constance 


enjoyed  the  charming  scene,  and  often  a 
smile  trembled  around  her  mouth,  but  dis- 
appeared quickly,  as  though  it  were  treason 
to  the  dead  to  laugh  and  be  happy. 

They  found  excellent  rooms  at  the  Aigle 
Noir,  a  pretty  little  hotel  near  the  palace, 
and  spent  the  most  of  their  time  in  the  beau- 
tiful gardens  that  surround  this  most  exquis- 
ite of  all  the  royal  chateaux  of  France. 

They  wandered  through  the  long  avenues 
of  clipped  yew  and  laurel,  sitting  on  flow- 
ery banks  amidst  a  wilderness  of  roses, 
watching  the  ever-changing  colors  of  the 
many  fountains  or  the  graceful  swan  float- 
ing majestically  on  the  bosom  of  the  placid 
lake,  and  the  little  painted  boats,  with 
white  sails  and  silken  pennons  fluttering  in 
the  breeze.  Sometimes  they  would  gath.tr 
around  the  immense  marble  basins  filled 
with  aquatic  plants,  amongst  whose  shad- 
ows sported  myriads  of  gold  and  silver  fish, 
and  wonder  if  it  were  the  same  to  which 
Louis  XIV.  came,  with  all  his  court,  to  feed 
his  little  finny  friends,  — an  amusement  the 
feeble  old  king  was  childishly  fond  of, — while 
Madame  de  Maintenon  sat  in  her  sedan-chair 
surrounded  by  her  lovely  maids  of  honor,  all 
forgetting  for  a  moment  court  intrigue  and 
scandal  to  take  a  part  in  this  innocent  pleas- 
ure. 

Then  there  were  days  when  all  the  world 

came  to  listen  to  the  music  of  the  Emperor's 

|  band,fbrthecourtwasthen  at  Fontainebleau, 

|  and  the  lovely  Eugenie  often  walked  among 

j  her  people,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  the  Em- 

\  peror  or  a  count  cavalier,  locking  like  a 

•  queen  in  a  fairy  tale,  bowing  and  ,'iniling  to 

all,  and  received  with  enthusiasm  wherever 

she  went,  —  for  she  was  then  in  the  first  flush 

of  her  power  and  beauty,  and  the  bourgeois 

worshipped  her. 

To  Constance  it  was  a  scene  of  bewilder- 
ing enchantment,  and  she  often  felt  that  if 
she  should  close  her  eyes  it  would  all  vanish, 
and  she  would  open  them  to  find  hert-elf 
sitting  quietly  with  her  book  under  a  shady 
tree  in  the  garden  at  Helmsford.  There 
on  the  left  was  the  vast  irregular  pile  of 
architecture,  half  Gothic,  half  Norman, 
the  historical  palace  of  Fontainebleau ;  be- 
hind, the  grand  forest,  wowd  renowned, 
stretching  away  in  long  sunny  vit-tas  and 
rock-crowned  summits  for  more  than  fifty 
miles ;  before  her,  the  gardens  and  park,  the 
sunlit  lawns,  the  trees  cut  in  strange,  fan- 
tastic shapes,  the  statues,  fountains,  and 
flowers,  the  miniature  lakes  with  their 
painted  miniature  boats,  the  elegant  crowd 
of  courtiers  passing  to  and  fro,  the  lovely 
Empress  followed  by  her  brilliant  suite,  the 
strains  of  exquisite  music  from  a  hundred 
instruments  quivering  and  trembling  on 
the  perfumed  air,  mingled  with  the  cool, 
fresh  splash  of  the  fountain?,  and  the  blue 
sky  and  summer  sun  shining  over  all. 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


25 


On  other  days  they  wandered  through 
the  grand  and  magnificent  apartments  of 
the  pdace,  each  rich  with  historical  and 
traditional  interest,  they  studied  the  rare 
pictures  that  adorned  the  walls,  they  lis- 
tened to  Mr.  Carnegie's  interesting  sketches 
of  each  century.  Here  was  the  room  in 
which  the  sad  and  disappointed  Napoleon 
signed  his  abdication ;  where  the  unfortu- 
nate Josephine  bade  adieu  forever  to  earth- 
ly happiness  ;  where  Louis  XIV.  and  Ma- 
dame cle  Maintenon  played  out  their  drama 
of  love ;  where  Marie  Antoinette  enjoyed 
for  a  little  time  the  fatal  power  of  royalty, 
youth,  and  beauty ;  where  Christina,  Queen 
of  S \veden,  unmercifully  put  to  death  her 
chamberlain,  whom  she  had  loved  with  the 
mad  pas.-iira  of  her  strange  nature,  but  who 
had  deceived  and  betrayed  her,  —  a  crime 
the  proud,  cruel  woman  could  only  blot  out 
with  blood.  Each  room,  each  spot,  has  its 
own  tragic  history,  over  which  Constance 
lingered  and  dreamed,  and  wondered  what 
were  the  thoughts  and  feeling?  of  the  actors. 

Often  they  rode  and  walked  under  the 
grand  trees  of  the  forest,  penetrating  into 
the  depths  of  the  shadowy  recesses,  pluck- 
ing the  shrinking  blue  mimosa  and  the  deli- 
cate ferns  and  harebells,  scaring  from  their 
haunts  the  wild  rabbit  and  partridge  or  the 
shy,  graceful  deer.  Mrs.  Tremaine  was 
always  straying  away  from  the  others,  and 
losing  herself,  causing  Mr.  Carnegie  no 
end  of  trouble  and  distress.  When,  after 
much  running  about  and  shouting,  he  would 
come  upon  her  quietly  seated  in  some  shady 
nook,  weaving  with  graceful  fingers  wreaths 
of  ivy,  ferns,  and  holly,  she  would  break 
into  a  mocking  laugh  at  his  pale  face  and 
anxious  manner ;  then,  seeing  him  look  real- 
ly distressed,  she  would  throw  the  garland 
around  his  neci,  and,  holding  it  by  the  ends, 
lead  him  oiF  like  a  captive  Bacchus. 

One  morning  Constance,  Mrs.  Tremaine, 
and  Mr.  Carnegie  were  riding  slowly  under 
the  interlaced  branches  of  some  huge  elms 
that  formed  aa  almost  impenetrable  shade, 
only  broken  lure  and  there  by  slender  rays 
of  sunlight  that  shot  like  arrows  through 
the  thick  foliage.  Mrs.  Tremaine  was 
mounted  on  a  suparb  white  horse  ;  her  dark 
green  hibit  displayed  the  beauty  of  her 
figure,  th.3  white  plumes  of  her  hat  mingled 
with  ths  golden  curls  that  had  escaped  from 
their  fastenings,  hsr  cheeks  were  slightly 
flushed,  her  eyes  soft  and  dreamy.  Con- 
stance rode  quietly  by  her  side.  Her  pale 
face,  dirk  hiir,  black  hat  and  feathers,  and 
the  severe  simplicity  of  her  mourning  habi!, 
formed  a  striking  but  no  less  beautiful  con- 
trast. S:;;l  len'.y  there  was  a  crash  among 
the  un:l:>.nvo:>d,  the  shrubbery  parted,  and  a 
magnificent  deer,  with  his  antlers  laid  back, 
his  nostrils  distended  and  white  with  foam, 
his  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets,  and 


every  muscle  quivering  with  fear,  sprang 
across  the  road  with  one  bound  and  disap- 
peared on  the  other  tide. 

"  The  hunt !  the  royal  hunt !  "  cried  Mr. 
Carnegie.  As  he  spoke,  a  turn  in  the  road 
'showed  them  all  the  gay  cavalcade  tearing 
madly  along  with  their  dogs,  in  lull  pursuit 
after  the  poor  trembling  animal  who  was 
straining  every  limb  to  escape.  First  came 
the  Empress,  her  golden  hair  and  white 
feathers  flying  in  the  wind,  her  scarlet  and 
white  costume,  jewel-handled  whip,  and 
gayly  caparisoned,  full-blooded  hunter,  with 
not  a  spot  or  fleck  of  foam  on  his  glossy 
hide.  Next  came  the  Emperor,  a  most 
commanding  figure  in  the  saddle;  then  the 
gay  courtiers,  with  a  flutter  of  feathers,  a 
Hashing  of  jewels,  loud,  gay  laughter,  mingled 
with  the  snorting  of  the  horses,  the  clatter- 
ing of  their  hoofs,  and  the  panting  of  the 
dogs  as  they  flew  by  like  the  wind.  More 
than  one  head  was  turned  for  another  glance, 
and  even  the  Emperor  bowed  low  in  his 
saddle  to  the  vision  of  quiet  beauty  that 
met  his  admiring  gaze.  In  a  moment  they 
were  out  of  sight,  and  Constance  s-Lhed  as 
she  said,  "  I  hope  they  will  not  bring 
down  the  poor  thing.  It  is  strange  how  all 
these  people  can  find  pleasure  in  hunting  a 
helpless,  timid  animal  to  death."' 

"  O,  how  tame  you  are !  "  cried  Mrs.  Tre- 
maine, her  cheeks  aglow,  and  her  eyes 
bright  with  excitement.  "  1  only  wish  I 
might  ride  with  them." 

"  Your  view  is  right,  Miss  Wilbreham," 
said  Mr.  Carnegie;  "it  is  indeed  a  cruel 
pastime,  though  all  the  world  share  it." 

"  Nevertheless,  it  was  a  brilliant  scene," 
returned  Helen.  "  Let  us  make  a  short  cut 
across  this  narrow  bridle-path,  and  perhaps 
we  may  meet  them  again." 

That  evening  they  sat  around  the  little 
table  in  the  beautiful  garden  of  the  hotel, 
eating  their  ices,  discussing  the  adventure 
of  the  morning,  and  expressing  their  re  j rets 
that  they  must  return  to  Paris  the  next  day. 

"  Dear  Madame  de  Marc,  stay  another 
week,"  cried  Helen. 

"No,  it  is  impossible,  my  dear;  1  cannot 
neglect  my  duties  any  longer,"  replied 
Madame,  decidedly.  So  the  next  morning 
they  went  back  to  Paris. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

TOMBS    AND    PICTURES. 

"TTERE  is  an  affeetiiin  termination  to 
Jll  true  love,"  said  Mrs.  Tree  aine,  turn- 
ing to  Mr.  Carnegie,  as  they  stood  one.  day 
bv  the  tomb  of  Abelanl  and  HeloiM',  at 
Pore  la  Chaise,  "  a  sad  monir.iu'iil ;  two 
disappointed  hearts  united  only  in  death. " 


26 


WOVEN   OF   MANY  THREADS. 


"  But  they  were  happy  for  a  time,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Carnegie ;  "  they  had  their  fore- 
taste of  paradise  in  the  retreat  they  had 
chosen,  before  old  Fulbert  separated  them. 
I  often  think  of  the  lonely  Heloise  pining 
in  her  comrent  cell,  dreaming  foiever  of  her 
dark-eyed  Abelard,  her  poet,  her  singer, 
her  reality  of  all  that  is  noble  and  beauti- 
ful in  humanity ;  and  the  poor,  sad,  heart- 
broken Abelard,  pacing  the  long,  dim  cor- 
ridors of  St.  Gildas,  gnawing  his  very  heart 
in  the  bitterness  of  his  sorrow,  or  pouring 
out  wild  lamentations  to  the  unheeding 
waves,  as  he  walked  for  hours  on  the 
rugged  shore,  mad  with  thinking  of  his 
lost  Heloise  and  his  ruined  life,  or  shedding 
scalding  tears  over  the  memory  of  the  sweet 
but  brief  days  of  their  happy  love,  which  he 
knew  were  lost  to  him  forever ;  again,  sit- 
ting in  his  abbe's  dress,  stern  and  gray,  be- 
fore the  rude  harp  in  his  cell,  pouring  out 
the  pent-up  passion  of  his  life  in  a  wild 
sweet  song  of  longing  love  and  regret." 

"  And  this  is  all,"  said  Constance,  —  "  all 
that  remains  of  one  of  the  saddest  trage- 
dies of  the  human  heart.  Two  stone  figures 
placidly  sleeping  side  by  side,  —  one  in  the 
dress  of  a  nun,  the  other  in  that  of  a  monk, 
stony  crosses  clasped  to  their  stony  breasts, 
and  stony  eyes  looking  calmly  and  patiently 
toward  the  blue  heavens !  '  After  life's 
fitful  fever,  they  sleep  well ! ' " 

"  Do  you  know,"  inquired  Mrs.  Tremaine, 
"  that  this  is  the  shrine  of  all  unhappy  lov- 
ers ;  they  have  hung  these  withered  garlands 
on  the  tomb.  They  wet  the  unsympathizing 
stone  with  their  tears,  and  pray  to  the  spirits 
of  the  united  lovers,  now  happy  in  paradise, 
believing  they  will  intercede  with  the  mother 
of  God  to  pity  them  in  their  sorrows.  They 
bring  an  offering  of  fresh  flowers,  clasp  their 
hands  above  the  cross,  make  a  solemn  vow 
of  fidelity,  which  they  seal  with  a  kiss,  and 
then  go  away,  believing  all  will  be  well." 

Mr.  Carnegie  turned  an  eloquent  glance 
upon  her  as  she  spoke,  and,  leaning  his 
forehead  against  the  tomb,  remained  silent 
for  a  moment.  Was  he  praying,  or  was  he 
thinking  ?  ,1  do  not  know,  I  cannot  declare, 
for  his  placid  face  revealed  nothing  as  he 
turned  away  from  the  spot. 

They  paused  for  a  moment  to  regard  the 
place  where  rest  the  remains  of  Marshal 
Ney,  Napoleon's  brave,  noble,  and  beloved 
general.  It  is  a  simple  enclosure  around  a 
mound  of  grass  and  a  few  mournful  neglected 
flowers.  No  storied  marble  tells  of  the  great 
and  heroic  acts  of  a  life  devoted  to  its  country. 

"  N'importe ;  the  solitary  sadness  of  the 
place  is  more  eloquent  than  the  proudest 
monument,"  said  Mr.  Carnegie,  as  he 
plucked  a  few  leaves  for  his  herbarium. 

Near  the  simple  but  massive  tomb  of  the 
Rothschild  family,  in  the  Jews'  cemetery,  is 
the  tomb  of  Rachel,  —  a  plain  granite  pile, 


about  the  size  and  form  of  an  English  dog- 
kennel.  Mrs.  Tremaine  lingered  near  it  in 
deep  thought.  "  How  strange,"  she  said  at 
length,  "  that  so  frail  a  body  should  imprison 
genius  which  could  magnetize  and  electrify 
the  multitude  until  they  forgot  that  the  part 
she  was  playing  was  not  reality !  And 
stranger  still  that  a  form  so  classically  beau- 
tiful, a  face  so  lofty  and  pure,  could  conceal 
a  character  so  at  variance  with  her  intel- 
lect and  appearance." 

"  I  remember,"  remarked  Mr.  Carnegie, 
"  seeing  her  in  Medea  many  years  ago, 
and  her  agonized  expression,  her  passionate 
utterance,  are  as  vividly  before  me  as  though 
it  were  but  yesterday.  It  is  not  difficult  to 
understand  how  a  soul  all  restle.-sm  ss  and 
fire  should  find  these  frail  barriers  of  cloy 
insufficient  to  retain  it.  She  poured  out  her 
life  and  vitality  to  the  adoring  world  with 
heedless  prodigality.  Her  years  were  few, 
but  she  lived  months  in  each  day,  and  ages 
in  each  year.  At  one  time  she  had  the 
world  at  her  feet,  and  now  what  remains  ? 
A  handful  of  dust,  a  neglected  tomb,  a  repu- 
tation unmercifully  handled  by  her  biog- 
raphers. These  are  all  save  the  fame  of 
her  genius ;  that  was  a  spark  of  immortality 
which  nothing  could  extinguish." 

"  Let  us  go,"  said  Mrs.  Tremaine.  "  It  is 
late,  and  the  surroundings  are  rather  gloomy. 
I  think  an  English  country  churchyard 
much  to  be  preferred  for  a  burial-place. 
Pere  la  Chaise  is  vast,  grand,  and  solemn,  a 
silent  city  of  the  dead.  It  speaks  only  of 
decay,  never  of  resurrection." 

One  bright  day  in  August  they  wandered 
through  the  magnificent  park  of  Versailles, 
down  long  avenues  of  stately  elms,  festooned 
with  ivy  and  climbing  roses,  over  lawns 
green  and  smooth  as  velvet,  by  babbling 
rustic  brooks,  sparkling  fountains,  and  shady 
arbors,  until  they  reached  the  charming 
Trianon  of  Marie  Antoinette,  the  Swiss  cot- 
tages, the  little  gardens,  the  tiny  ponds, 
rustic  bridges,  and  vine-covered  bowers,  all 
as  they  were  arranged  nearly  a  century  ago 
for  the  pleasure  of  that  young  and  lovely 
queen,  whose  will  was  law,  whose  smile  was 
more  potent  than  the  frown  of  a  nation. 
They  walked  through  the  pretty  simple 
rooms  where  she  had  played  her  role  of 
peasant,  when  she  served  with  her  own  fair 
hands  the  adoring  courtiers  who  gathered 
around  her,  loving  her  better  that  she  could 
descend  from  her  royalty  to  seek  happiness 
in  a  simple  pastoral  scene. 

"  Do  you  think  it  possible  she  has  slept  in 
this  bed  ?  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tremaine,  paus- 
ing to  examine  a  simple  couch  overhung 
with  muslin  drapery  ;  "  and  are  these  pretty 
pastoral  scenes  the  same  pictures  that  first, 
met  her  gaze  when  she  awoke  in  the  morn- 
ing?" 

"  Certainly,  the  very  same,"  replied  Con- 


WOVEN  OF  MANY  THREADS. 


27 


stance,  "  or  at  least  I  love  to  think  so,  it 
brings  one  so  much  nearer  the  life  of  the 
woman." 

"  I  dislike  to  leave  a  place  of  such  calm 
and  simple  beauty  for  the  magnificence  of 
the  palace,"  said  Madame  Landel.  "  Poor 
queen !  how  her  heart  must  have  ached 
when  she  looked  upon  it  all  for  the  last  time ! " 

"  I  think  the  saddest  of  all  the  remains 
of  departed  glory,  life,  and  joy  is  this 
theatre,"  observed  Mr.  Carnegie  as  they 
followed  the  guide  to  the  deserted  shrine  of 
Melpomene  and  Thalia.  "  Here  is  the  large 
and  beautifully  arranged  stage,  where  the 
queen,  cavaliers,  and  ladies  oi  the  court 
played  their  mimic  parts,  which  were  but 
rehearsals  for  the  last  fearful  tragedy  tnat 
ended  the  lives  of  the  greater  part  of  the 
gay  throng.  Dust  and  mould  have  gathered 
and  obscured  the  brilliancy  of  the  exquisite- 
ly painted  scenes.  Spiders  spin  their  web.-; 
among  the  drops  and  gilded  curtains  year 
after  year  undisturbed.  Solemn,  unearthly 
echoes  resound  where  once  mirth,  laughter, 
and  joy  held  their  wild  revel." 

"  1  can  fancy,"  said  Mrs.  Tremaine,  as 
she  turned  to  the  richly  decorated  royal 
box, '  "  the  whole  enchanting  scene,  —  the 
beauty,  the  youth,  the  rustling  silks,  dancing 
plumes,  and  sparkling  jewels,  the  blight 
eyes,  the  snowy  bosoms,  the  glowing  cheeks, 
that  were  so  soon  faded  and  darkened  by 
despair  and  death.  I  can  see  Louis  XVL, 
his  placid,  benevolent  face  beaming  with 
pleasure  and  expectation,  surrounded  by  his 
ministers,  all  looking  eagerly  for  the  curtain 
to  rise,  when  their  queen  would  appear  as 
first  lady  in  some  light  French  comedy. 
Those  were  merry  days  for  the^court  of 
France,  — careless  days  of  mirth  and  pleas- 
ure, followed  by  a  reign  of  despair  and 
terror." 

They  left  the  theatre  to  its  silence,  dust, 
and  darkness,  and  went  through  suites  of 
rooms,  and  magnificent  state  apartments, 
all  furnished  royally  ;  they  lingered  to  look 
on  the  rare  pictures,  —  a  gallery  in  them- 
selves, —  the  statues,  old  china,  tapestry 
glowing  with  colors  as  fresh  and  vivid  as 
when  it  left  the  loom,  and  the  curious  clock, 
on  which,  when  the  hour  strikes,  a  door  flies 
open  and  a  number  of  little  figures  in  the  cos- 
tume of  the  time  dance  a  minuet.  In  the  pri- 
vate rooms  of  Marie  Antoinette  they  found 
much  to  interest  them,  —  her  library,  her 
writing-table,  and  chair ;  they  looked  with 
something  like  reverence  at  the  books  she 
had  read  and  studied,  still  bearing  the  marks 
placed  by  her  fingers. 

When  they  reached  the  private  boudoir 
lined    with  "mirrors,    Mrs.    Tremaine    ex- 
claimed, "  Ah !  I  can  well  understand  why  I 
Marie  Antoinette  clasped  her  throat  with  | 
her  hands  when  she  entered  this  room  for 
the  first  time.     Look,  I   have  no  head." 


They  all  started  in  astonishment  at  the 
singular  appearance  Mrs.  Tivmaine  pre- 
sented, sans  tele.  Owing  to  some  arrange- 
ment of  the  plates  of  glass,  in  cm-tain 
positions  the  body  seems  to  stand  without 
a  head. 

"  Certainly  the  poor  queen's  after  fate 
seems  to  warrant  in  a  measure  the  verity 
of  the  tradition,"  said  Mr.  Carnegie. 
"  Though  we  have  no  reason  at  present  to 
think  Mrs.  Tremaine  will  be  beheaded,  yet, 
if  the  tradition  is  true,  no  one  ever  finds 
himself  accidentally  in  that  position  with- 
out coming  sooner  or  la'er  t:>  the  /juillotine." 

"  How  horrible  !  "  said  He!ej,  turning 
away  with  a  shudder ;  "  but  I  suppose  the 
poor  queen  believed  in  it  then  as  little  as 
1  do  now." 

From  the  boudoir  they  passed  into  the  pri- 
vate cabinet,  the  door  of  which  the  brave 
Swiss  guards  defended  while  the  unfortunate 
queen  made  her  escape  down  the  secret 
stairs.  A  little  room  less  than  ten  feet 
square^  what  a  scene  of  carnage  it  must 
have  presented  !  Twelve  brave  soldiers  cut 
down  by  the  infuriated  mob  ! 

"  How  they  must  have  loved  their  queen," 
remarked  Constance,  "  when  they  so  willing- 
ly gave  their  lives  for  her  !  " 

They  looked  from  the  balcony,  where  she 
had  courageously  held  up  the  Prince  Im- 
perial to  the  blood-thirsty  mob,  entreat- 
ing them,  with  all  the  strong  love  and 
tenderness  of  a  mother's  heart,  to  spare  and 
protect  her  child. 

"  Poor  mother  !  "  said  Madame  Landel, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "in  her  natural 
affection  she  forgot  her  royalty,  and  would 
have  knelt  at  the  feet  of  the  lowest  fish- 
woman  in  the  crowd  to  have  saved  those 
she  loved." 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  Carnegie,  looking  at  his 
watch,  "  let  us  go  into  the  garden  to  see  the 
world-renowned  fountain,  which  precisely 
at  four  o'clock  sends  up  its  sparkling  waters 
from  five  hundred  jets." 

Scarcely  had  they  reached  their  seats 
under  some  overhanging  branches,  when 
here  and  there  from  the  immense  semi- 
circle started  up  tiny  streams,  that  in- 
creased in  size  and  height  until  they  seemi-d 
to  reach  almost  to  the  heavens,  —  dazzling, 
sparkling,  many-colored  rays,  rainbow- 
tinted,  slanting  sunbeams,  overshot  with 
trembling,  changing  mist.  It  was  more  like 
some  scene  conjured  up  by  the  ma^ic  of  an 
enchanter  than  the  cunning  device  of  man. 
Fur  a  few  moments  only  this  wonderful 
effect  lasted ;  even  while  their  eyes  were 
fixed  on  it,  it  disappeared,  and  nothing  re- 
mained but  the  dull  gray  stone  of  the 
fountain. 

"  How  beautiful,  but  how  brief! "  said 
Constance,  with  a  sigh ;  "  it  is  an  emblem 
of  joy,  entrancing  but  evanescent,  fauod  and 


28 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


gone  even  while  we  are  exulting  over  its 
possession ! " 

Poor  girl !  while  she  spoke  the  memory 
of  the  rose-tinted  hours  of  her  life  started 
up  suddenly  from  the  still  fountain  of  the 
past,  glorified  and  irradiated  her  clouded 
sky,  and  then  vanished,  leaving  nothing  but 
the  hard,  cold  reality,  the  dull  grayness  of 
the  stone  she  had  rolled  over  the  grave  of 
her  love. 

They  all  left  this  spot,  so  replete  with 
beauty  and  historic  interest,  sadder,  if  not 
wiser,  and  little  was  said  by  any  of  the 
party  during  the  drive  home;  each  one 
seemed  absorbed  in  thought,  or  perhaps 
they  were  all  too  tired  for  conversa- 
tion. 

They  spent  many  days  in  the  gallery  of 
the  Louvre ;  there,  with  the  aid  of  Mr. 
Csrnegie's  knowledge  and  taste,  they  studied 
the  exquisite  productions  of  the  greatest 
masters. 

•  Constance  lingered  longer,  and  examined 
with  a  more  profound  interest  those  pure 
but  half-conceived  aspirations  of  Cimabue 
and  Giotto.  She  often  fancied  the  shep- 
herd-boy neglecting  his  sheep  to  gaze  with 
dreamy  eyes  over  the  distant  Pisan  hills,  or 
with  more  intense  earnestness  into  the  blue 
ether,  perhaps  tracing  in  the  varying  and 
tender  tints'  the  pale,  sweet  -face  of  a  saint 
or  suffering  martyr.  Poor  pained  aspira- 
tions, half  wrought,  but  powerful  with  the 
stamp  of  genius  and.  .soul,  with  all  their 
faults  of  execution  they  attained  to  what 
the  later  masters  sought  and  toiled  for  in 
vain.  The  suffering  heart  of  the  girl  found 
companionship  and  sympathy  in  .the  tearful, 
patient  faces  that  looked  at  her  from  the  old 
canvases,  made  sacred  by  the  golden  glow 
of  Time.  Crude,  almost  grotesque,  yet  how 
powerful  in  their  appeal  to  the  purest  and 
Holiest  in  our  natures. 

"  Here  is  a  picture  I  want  you  to  look  at 
carefully,"  said  Mr.  Carnegie,  —  "  St.  Fran- 
cis of  Assisi  in  ecstasy.      It  was  painted 
by  Filippo  Lauri.      The  story  is  that  St. 
Francis,   being    ill,   thought    music   might 
relieve  his  sufferings,  but  being  too  humble 
to  grant  himself  the  pleasure,  God  rewarded 
his  virtue  by  sending  a  choir  of  angels  to 
sing  to  him.     See,  the  poor  saint,  worn  out  j 
by  watching  and  fasting,  has  fallen  asleep  j 
on  a  rock,  holding  a  cross  to  his  breast,  j 
What  a  seraphic  vision  he  beholds !  what 
enchanting  sounds  burst  upon  his  ears !    His 
whole  body  expresses  the  lassitude  of  pro- 
found repose ;  the  ineffable  peace  and  joy 
depicted  on  his  face  show  that  angels  are 
ministerinsr  to  him.     To  me  it  is  a  wonder-  i 
ful  picture.     I  am  never  weary  of  looking  | 
at  it. 

"  Here  is  a  portrait  that  pleases  me  more 
than  all  your  saints,"  said  Mrs.  Tremaine,  — 
"this  picture  of  an  ancient  coquette,  the 


Mona  Lisa  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci ;  she  is 
not  lovely,  and  yet  she  is  conscious  of  her 
power,  and  sits  there  as  proudly  as  though 
she  were  born  to  command  the  world. 
She  has  a  very  ugly  nose,  and  no  eyebrows, 
and  yet  her  face  fascinates ;  perhaps  it  is  the 
expression  of  her  wicked  eyes." 

"  No,"  replied  Mr.  Carnegie,  laughing, 
"  it  is  the  power  of  coquetry ;  every  line 
of  her  face,  the  languishing  eyes,  the  se- 
ducing mouth,  the  imperious  smile,  all  show 
she  was  a  heartless  flirt." 

"  I  don't  like  the  picture,"  said  Con- 
stance, turning  away ;  "  here  is  one  I  prefer, 
this  beautiful  Conception  of  Murillo.  The 
Virgin  seems  to  float  in  the  clouds ;  and  can 
anything  be  more  exquisitely  lovely  than 
the  rapt,  holy  expression  of  her  face,  or 
the  innocent  sweetness  of  the  angels  and 
cherubs  surrounding  her?  " 

"  You  have  selected  for  your  especial 
approval  the  finest  picture  in  the  collec- 
tion, or  perhaps  I  should  say  the  one 
which  cost  the  most  money,"  observed  Mr. 
Carnegie;  "it  was  bought  in  1852  at  the 
sale  of  the  collection  of  the  Duke  of  Dalma- 
tia  for  the  sum  of  515,300  francs.  Is  not 
1  that  a  proof  of  its  merit  ?  " 

"  Net  entirely,",  replied  Constance.  "  The 
Mona  Lisa  cost  almost  as  much,  beside 
causing  no  end  of  trouble  between  the  Ital- 
ian and  French  governments,  and  I  do  not 
1  think  the  pictures  at  all  to  be  compared  in 
j  regard  .to  merit  or  beauty." 

"  Ah,  Constance !  "  laughed  Mrs.  Tre- 
maine, "  you  look  at  the  portrait  of  the 
unfortunate  La  Jaconde  with  the  eyes  of  a 
j  virtuous  woman,  and  you  are  prejudiced 
i  against  her  picture  because  of  her  life.  Is 
it  not  so  ?  But  I  have  no  such  scruples.  I 
think  it  the  most  remarkable  thing  in  the 
Louvre." 

Each  day  brought  with  it  eome  new  amuse- 
ment  and  distraction,  and  Madame  Landel 
rejoiced  secretly  at  the  happy  change  in 
her  beloved  charge.  Gradually  the  smile 
returned  to  her  lips,  and  chased  array  the 
sad,  unquiet  expression  that  had  too  often 
rested  there ;  the  indifference  she  had  shown 
to  life  had  given  place  to  a  cheerful  and 
hopeful  interest  in  everything  connected 
with  her  future. 

The  summer  was  passing  away  rapidly ; 
August  was  nearly  over.  The  heat  had 
been  very  oppressive,  and  one  day,  late  in 
the  afternoon,  they  had  all  gathered  in  the 
garden.  The  ladies,  in  loose  white  dresses, 
reclined  languidly  on  the  low  rustic  seats, 
fanning  themselves  to  produce  the  faintest 
breath  of  air.  Mr.  Carnegie  Jay  stretched 
at  full  length  on  the  grass,  reading  to  them 
from  Lamartine's  Fior  d'  Alizn.  II  u  read 
well  and  with  much  expression  the  exqui- 
sitely beautiful  introductory  remarks  of  the 
author.  When  he  had  finished  he  remained 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


29 


a  few  moments  in  deep  thought,  and  then 
said,  "  Why  is  it  that  the  most  simple 
thing  Lamartine  has  written  is  a  poem  in 
itself?  " 

"  Because  he  -writes  from  his  own  experi- 
ence," replied  Constance  ;  "  all  he  portrays 
he  has  felt  and  suffered,  and  he  has  written 
a  series  of  dramas,  in  every  one  of  which  he 
has  been  the  principal  actor.  *No  one  can 
so  well  describe  to  us  stage-life  as  he  who 
has  seen  it  in  its  different  phases,  —  as  he 
who  has  appeared  for  an  hour  before  an  ad- 
miring audience,  flushed  with  success  and 
bewildered  with  music  and  light.  Then  he 
turns  behind  the  scenes ;  the  lamps  are 
extinguished,  the  throbbing  pulse  of  melody 
is  still,  the  applause  of  the  crowd  no  longer 
sounds  in  his  ears,  he  sees  the  gorgeous 
transformations  are  nothing  but  painted 
boards  and  paper  in  fact,  reality  is  before 
him  in  all  its  dreary  ghastliness,  and  he 
wonders  how,  for  even  one  moment,  he 
could  hare  been  dazzled  by  the  illusion. 
At  times  Lamartine  forgets,  for  a  little,  the 
pathos  and  sadness  of  life ;  his  mournful 
experiences  fade  away  and  are  clothed  in 
the  softening  drapery  of  time,  and  the 
murmuring  voices  of  his  dreamy  youth  are 
deadened  by  the  strife  of  the  world.  Its 
pride,  ambition,  and  pomp  lure  him  from 
the  past,  offering  him  in  exchange  less  of 
sweetness  and  purity,  more  of  fame  and 
glory.  Suddenly  he  remembers  he  has 
lived  and  suffered ;  then  he  dips  his  pen 
deep  into  the  fountains  of  his  heart,  and 
writes  a  poem  overbrimming  with  the  pathos 
and  tender  majesty  of  a  life-long  sorrow." 

"  You  are  an  ardent  admirer  of  Lamar- 
tine," said  Mr.  Carnegie  ;  "  am  glad  I  have 
selected  this  work  from  all  his  others  to  read 
this  afternoon.  There  is  such  a  rustic  sweet- 
ness and  simplicity  about  it,  so  appropriate 
to  the  time  and  scene." 

Constance  did  not  reply  ;  she  was  think- 
ing of  the  words  he  had  read,  and  how  ap- 
plicable they  were  to  her  own  experience. 

An  hour  after,  when  she  was  sitting  alone 
with  Madame  Landel,  she  said,  "  Is  it  not 
strange  how  a  little  time  changes  our  whole 
lives,  and  even  our  feelings  ?  I  seem  to  have 
lived  more  in  this  last  year  than  in  all  my 
life  before.  I  wonder  if  this  discipline  has 
improved  and  strengthened  my  character. 
I  hope  dear  papa,  from  his  home  above, 
looks  with  approval  on  my  efforts  to  be 

Ratient  and  resigned.     I  have   done  very 
ttle  good  to  any  one,  only  I  have  tried  not 
to  make  those  around  me  unhappy.    Do  you 
think  1  have  entirely  failed  ?  "  she  inquired, 
with  a  little  touch  of  anxiety  in  her  voice. 

"  No,  my  dear,"  replied  her  friend  ;  "you 
have  at  least  made  me  happier  by  trying  to 
be  cheerful,  and  I  know,  if  your  papa  is 
permitted  to  watch  over  you,  he  will  rejoice 
that  you  are  renewing  your  interest  in  life, 


and  trying  so  sweetly  and  patiently  to  learn 
the  hard  lesson  of  submission.  Believe  me, 
in  time  you  will  be  happy.  You  are  younir ; 
your  life  is  all  before  you.  What  can  pic- 
vent  you,  if  you  do  your  duty  to  youivelf 
and  your  fellow-creatures,  from  finding  your 
reward  in  a  calm  and  peaceful  future  ?  " 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  "  my  life  has  still 
many  blessings ;  but  yet  there  aie  times 
when  such  a  sense  of  utter  bereavement 
fills  my  heart  that  I  cannot  support  it  un- 
murmuringly.  I  will  endeavor  to  be  what 
dear  papa  would  wish  ;  I  will  try  to  live  for 
something  beside  myself.  I  see  now  more 
clearly  into  the  ills  of  life.  The  sorrows  of 
the  heart  are  like  well-read  books  to  me  ;  I 
have  learned  their  characters,  and  I  know 
them,  no  matter  how  well  concealed,  for  I 
look  far  below  the  surface,  and  I  fee  the 
poor  soul  tempted,  struggling,  suffering,  and 
I  long  to  do  something  to  aid  it,  that  it  may 
gain  the  victory." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

IN   SEARCH   OF   HAPPINESS. 

ONE  morning  Constance  entered  Madame 
Landel's  room  with  an  open  letter  in 
her  hand. 

"  I  have  just  received  this  from  Lady 
Dinsmore,"  she  said,  —  '•  such  a  long,  kind 
letter ;  and  I  am  so  glad  she  has  decided 
to  spend  the  winter  in  Italy,  or  at  least  a 
portion  of  it.  Hear  what  she  says  :  — 

"  '  Do  not  wai'  in  Paris  for  us,  as  my  du- 
ties will  detain  me  in  England  until  the 
commencement  of  the  winter.  Go  on  to  your 
destination,  —  Florence,  Rome,  or  Naples, 
whichever  it  may  be,  —  and  we  will  join  you 
there.  There  are  many  reasons  why  I 
should  not  leave  England,  but  a  longing  de- 
sire to  see  again  the  land  of  art  and  song, 
and  the  benefit  it  may  be  to  my  child,  in- 
duce me.  to  do  so.' 

"  I  had  hoped,"  continued  Ccnstance, 
"  that  she  would  join  us  here,  but  as  she 
cannot  leave  England  at  present,  I  have  de- 
cided, if  it  meets  with  your  approval,  to  go 
directly  to  Rome,  where  I  wish  to  spend  the 
winter.  I  think  Mrs.  Tremainu  will  accom- 
pany us ;  she  told  me  yesterday  she  had 
about  decided  to  do  so ;  and  you  know  Mr. 
Carnegie  spends  all  his  winters  in  Rome ; 
fo  we  shall  be  a  very  pleasant  party.  Does 
this  arrangement  suit  you,  dear  Madame  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  child,  perfectly.  How  soon  do 
you  intend  to  leave  ?  " 

"  I  think,  if  Mrs.  Tremaine  is  ready,  we 
must  start  by  the  first  of  October,  and  it  is 
now  the  middle  of  September  ;  so  it  will  be 
in  a  fortnight." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear,   you   :::uit  flni.rh 


;o 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


your  sight-seeing  with  Mrs.  Tremaine,  and 
I  will  remain  quietly  at  home.  1  have  seen 
all  the  places  of  interest  years  ago,  and 
nothing  is  new  to  me  in  Paris.  Then  there 
is  a  little  shopping  to  be  done,  which  I  will 
attend  to;  so  you  will  have  your  time  entire- 
ly free  until  we  leave." 

"  Do  always  just  as  you  think  best,  dear 
Madame,"  replied  Constance,  kissing  her 
fondly  as  she  left  the  room  to  find  Mrs. 
Tremaine. 

Mr.  Carnegie  was  delighted  with  the  de- 
cision. He  was  anxious  to  get  back  to 
Rome,  which  he  declared  was  paradise  com- 
pared with  any  other  place.  Madame  de 
Marc,  at  first,  could  scarcely  be  brought  to 
consent  to  Mrs.  Tremaina's  leaving  her. 

"  You  are  my  child,"  she  said,  "  and  I 
cannot  get  on  without  you.  It  is  cruel  to 
abandon  me  for  new  friends." 

Helen  kissed  her,  wept  over  her,  and  pet- 
ted her,  declaring  nothing  would  induce  her 
to  go,  only  her  hualth  required  it. 

"  It  is  absolutely  necessary  that  I  should 
spend  the  winter  in  Italy.  You  remembsr 
last  year  how  I  suffered  from  this  dreadful 
climate.  I  am  sure  if  I  remain  another 
twelve  months  hare,  at  the  end  of  the  time 
I  shall  be  a  fit  subject  for  Pere  la  Chaise." 

Madame  da  Marc  looked  at  her  smiling, 
rosy  face,  and  did  not  seem  at  all  convinced 
by  her  reasoning ;  however,  after  much  pro- 
testing and  debating,  she  finally  acquiesced 
sadly  and  reluctantly.  After  she  had  done 
so,  she  felt  as  though  a  shadow  of  coming 
evil  had  Mien  upon  her. 

Every  hour  of  the  succeeding  days  was 
employed  in  visiting  the  remaining  places  of 
interest,  chopping,  and  keeping  appoint- 
ments with  milliners  and  dressmakers,  until 
Mr.  Carnegie  declared  they  intended  opening 
a  module's  establishment  in  Rome. 

"  1  have  bought  very  little,"  Constance 
would  say.  "  It  is  Mrs.  Tremaine  to  whom 
all  these  belong.  I  have  no  need  of  fine 
things,  as  I  shall  not  go  into  society  be- 
cause of  my  mourning." 

The  evenings  were  too  chilly  and  the 
days  too  short  to  allow  them  to  spend  much 
ti.mii  in  the  garden ;  now  they  all  assembled 
in  the  salon  instead,  where  they  sipped 
their  tea  ancl  chatted  before  the  fire,  or 
listened  to  Helen's  sweet  voice. 

"  Do  sing  for  us,  Miss  Wilbreham,"  said 
Maiame  de  Marc,  "just  one  song  before 
you  leave.  I  have  never  even  heard  your 
voice." 

Much  to  the  surprise  of  Madame  Landel, 
she  seated  herself  at  the  piano,  and  com- 
menced in  a  sweet  but  tremulous  voice  La  \ 
P.irtenza  of  Schubert ;  but  before  she  had  I 
finkhel  sha  burst  into  tears   and  left  the 
room.     It  was  the  first  time  she  had  sung 
f  ia'je  her  father's  death,  but  she  never  re- 
i'-.i  e J  afterwards.     Indeed,  she  seemed  to 


find  a  relief  in  pouring  out  the  sorrows  of 
her  heart  in  pathetic  music. 

At  last  all  was  arranged,  and  the  morning 
came  for  .their  departure.  The  ladies  bade 
Madame  de  Marc  adieu  with  tearful  eyes. 
Mrs.  Tremaine  burst  into  sobs,  and,  with 
real  sorrow  at  leaving  her  friend,  protested 
at  the  last  moment  she  would  not  go. 
Madame  de  Marc  gently  soothed  the  weep- 
ing girl,  with  a  strange  agony  at  her  own 
heart,  a  feeling  of  coming  calamity,  that 
the  circumstance  little  warranted. 

The  luggage  was  arranged,  the  last  fare- 
wells were  said,  and  Mr.  Carnegie,  flushed 
and  tired  from  his  unusual  exertion,  gave 
the  coachman  the  order  to  start. 

Constance  and  Mrs.  Tremaine  leaned 
from  the  window,  bowing,  smiling,  and 
wiping  away  the  tears,  until  the  carriage 
turned  and  they  caught  the  last  glimpse  of 
Madame  de  Marc  standing  in  the  court  sur- 
rounded by  her  servants.  Then  Helen 
threw  herself  back  on  the  seat,  and  cried, 
with  a  choking  sob,  "  I  cannot  tell  why,  but 
I  feel  I  shall  never  see  her  again." 

The  day  proved  to  be  rainy  and  foggy, 
and  they  were  very  glad  to  remain  at  Lyons 
over  night.  They  found  little  to  interest 
them  in  this  Manchester  of  France,  and  the 
next  morning  they  continued  their  jour- 
ney. 

It  was  a  delightful  day,  fresh  and  clear 
after  the  rain.  The  blue  Rhone  flashed 
and  quivered  in  the  sunlight,  and  far  away 
on  the  distant  mountains,  whose  summits 
were  still  capped  with  fleecy  clouds,  net- 
tled smiling  vineyards,  yellow  villages  with 
bright-tiled  roofs,  spires,  turrets,  and  ruined 
towers,  one  succession  of  pictures, —  stately 
Avignon,  once  the  stronghold  of  the  Papal 
power,  now  showing  decay  amid  the  gran- 
deur of  its  castellated  summits  and  ruined 
palaces;  Valence,  where  the  weary  lace-mak- 
ers toil  all  day  over  the  dainty  web,  to  adorn 
idle  beauty  in  far-away  countries.  On  they 
sped  with  lightning-like  velocity,  past  an- 
cient cities,  beautiful  villages,  fair  plains, 
and  flashing  rivers,  until  suddenly  the  blue 
Mediterranean  burst  on  their  si<;ht,  studded 
with  islands  and  dotted  with  uhito.-aiU'd 
boats. 

The  heart  of  Constance  beat  with  sudden 
joy  at  the  lovely  scene  spread  before  her. 
"  At  last,  at  last,"  she  thought,  "  I  am 
drawing  near  classic  ground  ;  I  behold  the 
sea  whose  waves  touch  the  land  of  art, 
music,  poetry,  tradition,  and  romance." 

Her  musing  was  interrupted  by  tin  ir  ar- 
rival at  Marseilles,  the  oldest  city  in  France, 
founded  six  hundred  years  before  Christ. 
Travellers  seldom  find  much  to  interest 
them  in  Marseilles,  but  to  our  party,  who 
were  prepared  to  see  beauty  in  everything, 
it  seemed  a  most  charming  place. 

They    drove    through    the     magnificent 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


31 


Rue  Noailles  to  the  Chateau  Barelly,  and 
there  a  scene  of  surpassing  beauty  spread 
before  them. 

In  front  wa-;  the  old  gray  chateau,  rich 
in  pointed  turrets,  porticos,  and  quaint  carv- 
ing, surrounded  by  grounds  laid  out  in  the 
most  elaborate  designs;  long  drives  m;,d.- 
dark  and  sombre  by  interlacing  branches, 
festooned  with  ivy,  graceful  vines,  and 
climbing  rose?,  b"ds  <;f  gorgeous  tropical 
flowers,  among  which  (lamed  the  oleander 
and  blood-red  cactus,  fountains  flashing  in 
the  sunlight,  statues  gleaming  among  the 
;  lakes  and  cascades,  rustic  bridges, 
ic  temples,  brilliant  pagodas,  and  half- 
concealed  towers ;  in  fact,  everything  in 
nature  and  art  to  render  the  .scene  as  near 
paradise  as  the  devices  of  man  can  fashion 
earth.  Away  in  the  background  rose  the 
mountains,  purple  against  the  blue  sky,  with 
little  white  villages  nestling;  in  all  their 
gorges,  and  dotted  over  with  patches  of 
emerald  green  and  gold,  as  the  r-un  painted 
a  field  of  grain,  or  a  yellow  vineyard  ;  and 
away  to  thy  right  sparkled  and  flashed  the 
wide,  free  Mediterranean.  Whatever  has 
been  said  or  sung  in  praise  of  the  b'ucr.ess 
of  its  waves  has  not  been  exaggerated ; 
there  is  something  truly  indescribable  in 
the  depth  and  tenderness  of  th3  color,  a 
warmth,  a  limpid  ness,  that  partakes  of  the 
tone  of  the  sky  smiling  above  it.  They 
drove  along  a  beautiful  road,  built  around 
the  head  of  a  deep  bay.  On  one  side  is 
the  sea,  covered  with  majestic  ships  under 
full  canvas,  steamers  leaving  far  behind 
a  trail  of  smoke,  like  touches  of  dusky 
bronzs  against  the  clear  sky,  and  little 
dancing  white-sailed  boats,  some  bearing 
gay  streamers  and  prows  painted  in  as 
many  colors  as  a  bouquet  of  flowers  ; 
on  the  other  side  are  high  perpendicular 
cliffs  of  yellow  clay,  brilliant  with  wild 
cactus  and  oleander,  and  crowned  on  the 
summit  with  gay  villas  and  overhanging 
gardens.  A  little  distance  from  tiie  shore, 
and  making  a  grim,  dark  blot  on  the  sunny 
sea,  is  the  castellated  rock  known  as  Chateau 
d'  If,  the  scene  of  the  romance  of  Monte 
Cristo.  At  the  right  of  that  a  ledge  of  j 
gray  Iim3stone  extends  far  into  the  sea,  and 
at  its  base  on  sunken  rocks  rise  two  small 
lighthouses,  so  small  and  so  far  below  that 
they  look  like  painted  toys ;  and  perched 
so  high  above,  on  a  perpendicular  cliff,  that 
the  turrets  seem  to  touch  the  sky,  is  the 
Church  of  Notre  Dame  de  la  Garde,  and 
at  its  base  the  whole  great  city,  watched 
over  by  thh  sacred  edifice. 

"  O,  what  a  scene  of  beauty  !  "  said  Con- 
stance, "  and  how  refreshing  after  the  din 
and  bustle  of  Paris  !  " 

"  Look  there,  below,"  cried  Mr?.  Trc- 
maino,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  beach, 
where  a  number  of  people  were  gathered. 


''  Do  you  sec  that  woman  sitting  on  a  rock, 
with  her  face  buried  in  her  hands  V     Poor 
I  thing  !  what  can  be  the  matter1.''  '' 

"Let  us  go  down  and  inquire,"  said  Mr. 
Carnegie,  "  or,  if  you  prefer,  remain  here, 
and  I  will  go  alone." 

"  No,  let  us  all  go,"  said  Constance  ;  "  if 
she  is  suffering  we  may  be  able  to  help  her.'' 

As  they  drew  near  the  spot  they  saw 
before  them  a  forlorn-looking  girl,  poorly 
dressed,  crouched  on  the  shore,  her  face 
buried  in  her  hands,  and  her  straight  black 
hair  unfastened  and  trailing  in  the  sand, 
while  near  her  stood  an  infirm  old  man,  re- 
garding her  with  the  most  profound  sorrow. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  her  V  "  inquired 
Mr.  Carnegie,  as  the  old  man  took  ell'  his 
red  cap. 

"  Ah  mon  Dicu  !  Ma  pauvrc  Marie.  /  "  he 
replied,  in  the  trembling  tones  of  age.  "  A 
happier,  gayer  child  than  she  was  YOU  never 
saw.  Two  weeks  ago  to-day  she  was  married 
to  Pierre,  the  handsomest  lad  on  the  coast. 
A  few  days  after  he  went  out  to  fi.-h,  a 
squall  struck  the  boat  within  hailing  dis- 
tance of  the  diorc  ;  she  went  down  before 
our  eyes,  and  that  night  his  poor  body  was 
washed  ashore,  here  in  this  very  spot,  dead." 
At  the  sound  of  the  word  '•  dead,"  the  girl 
raised  a  haggard  face,  lighted  up.  with  n 
pair  of  wild  black  eyes,  and  repeated  slowly, 
"  Dead,  yes,  dead,"  and  then  sank  back  into 
her  former  position. 

"  We  cannot  keep  her  away  from  this 
spot;  she  will  come  here  to  stay  d;;v  a;.d 
night.  0  mon  Dicu  !  Ma  ]Hiuvr> 

"Poor  thing,"  said  Constance,  laying  her 
hand   tenderly  on  her   head,   "  how 
ble  !    You  must  take  her  away  direct!- 
this  place ;  she  will  be  better  for  a  chiin^c  " ; 
and,  opening  her  purse,  she  poured  ii 
tents  into  the  hand  of  the  astonished  old 
man,  who  had  never  seen  so   much   gold 
before. 

"  Dieu  mix  bc'niffc,  Mademoiselle!  I  will 
do  so,  and  it  may  save  my  child." 

"I  do  not  know  which  to  pity  the  most, 
the  girl  or  the  poor  old  mnn,"  said  Helen, 
a*s  they  turned  away.  "  Who  would  have 
expected  to  witness  such  a  scene  of  sorrow 
here,  where  all  seems  so  gay  and  cheer- 
ful?" 

"  It  is  a  sad  ending  to  our  drive,"  re- 
marked   Madame  Landel;  "but   it  w 
to   teach   us   the  uncertainty   of   life   and 
earthly  happiness." 

As  they  mounted  the  hill  toward  N-itre 
Damede  la  Garde,  they  met  a  nu  rr\  wedding 
party  descending.  They  were  ymnri  and 
handsome,  but  brown  and  r>>u:.di  with  sun, 
wind,  and  lab.ir,  dressed  in  their  holiday 
finery,  surrounded  by  their  friends,  tluir 
broad  brown  faces  beaming  wi.'h  happiness 
and  good-humor. 

"Life  looks  very  bright  to  them  at  this 


32 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


moment,  remarked  Mr.  Carnegie ;  "  let  us 
hope  a  more  fortunate  fate  for  the  bride 
than  that  of  the  poor  girl  below." 

"  I  have  found  out  by  sad  experience  that 
the  Mediterranean  can  be  rough  and  stormy 
as  well  as  blue  and  calm,"  said  Constance, 
as  she  crept  to  the  deck,  leaning  on  Mr. 
Carnegie's  arm,  after  a  bad  night  between 
Marseilles  and  Civita  Vecchia.  "  Put  me 
in  a  safe  place  near  Mrs.  Trernaine,  and  then 
please  go  down  for  Madame  Landel ;  she  is 
almost  helpless  from  sea-sickness." 

"  O  what  a  night,  —  thunder  and  light- 
ning, wind  and  rain,  and  such  a  sea !  I 
thought  the  ship  would  be  lost,"  said  Helen, 
piteously.  "  I  never  will  go  on  the  sea  again. 
What  could  have  induced  us  to  come  this 
way  ?  " 

"  Never  mind,  dear,  it  is  all  over  now," 
replied  Constance,  "  and  the  sea  is  lovely 
this  morning.  See,  we  are  passing  between 
Elba  and  Corsica.  How  strange  that  these 
two  islands  should  be,  one  the  birthplace, 
and  the  other  the  prison,  of  Napoleon !  1 
fancy  the  poor  captive  must  have  looked 
often  with  longing  eyes  toward  the  spot 
where  he  had  passed  the  glad  days  of  child- 
hood, wishing  he  could  forget  all  the  cares 
and  sorrows  of  his  ambitious  life,  to  be  a 
free,  happy  child  in  his  old  home." 

"  I  think  it  would  have  cured  him  of  his 
ambition  if  he  had  been  sea-sick  a  little," 
said  Helen,  languidly  raising  her  head  and 
glancing  around.  "  I  am  sure  I  should  be 
willing  to  be  even  a  prisoner  if  I  could  only 
land  at  once." 

The  next  morning  all  were  on  deck  early, 
for  Civita  Vecchia  was  in  sight,  and  they 
were  as  anxious  to  see  the  place  of  their 
destination  as  though  they  had  been  on  the 
sea  for  weeks.  All  the  passengers  now 
came  on  deck,  some  for  the  first  time  during 
the  voyage,  and  indeed  they  were  a  motley 
crew.  There  was  a  bishop  surrounded  by 
some  twenty  monks  and  priests  ;  they  were 
in  the  midst  of  a  warm  discussion,  talking 
in  several  languages  at  the  same  time,  and 
gesticulating  freely.  Among  them  were 
several  Carmelite  priests, — large,  dark  men, 
dressed  in  picturesque  loose  white  robes 
with  large  sleeves  and  pointed  hoods,  and 
their  heads  shaved  to  a  narrow  ring  of  hair, 
—  strong,  handsome  men,  fit  to  do  battle  with 
the  world,  spoiled  by  these  womanly  robes 
and  bald  heads.  The  others  in  black  looked 
like  gloomy  ravens ;  they  talk,  take  snuff, 
and  glance  at  their  breviaries  at  the  same 
moment,  excited  and  eager  for  the  first 
sight  of  the  Eternal  City.  They  come,  pil- 
grims from  far  away,  to  worship  at  the  great 
shrine,  the  centre  of  the  Catholic  world,  St. 
Peter's. 

Here  is  a  group  of  nuns,  —  pale,  meek, 
devout  women  robed  in  black,  with  heavy 
rosaries,  their  hands  folded  and  their  eyes 


downcast.  They  too  are  about  to  realize 
a  long-anticipated  joy.  The  remainder  of 
the  passengers  are  made  up  of  different  na- 
tions, —  Italians,  Greeks,  Spaniards,  Ger- 
mans, and  English,  coming  from  different 
lands,  each  to  worship  in  his  own  way  at 
the  same  shrine. 

The  sea  is  as  blue  and  calm  as  though  no 
tempest  had  ever  ruffled  its  placid  surface, 
and  the  long  low  line  of  Tuscan  shore  lies 
bright  and  beautiful  in  the  morning  sunlight, 
—  Civita  Vecchia,  aged,  quaint,  and  dreary, 
perched  in  sombre  gravity  on  the  edge  of 
the  blue  sea.  A  little  bustla  of  importance 
is  imparted  by  a  frigate  and  a  garrison, 
otherwise  the  most  important  seaport  in  the 
papal  dominions  would  be  as  deserted  and 
silent  as  mined  Pompeii. 

Mrs.  Tremaine  and  Constance  amused 
themselves  by  giving  sous  to  the  beggars, 
while  Mr.  Carnegie  went  through  the  an- 
noyance of  opening  trunks  and  boxes  for 
the  custom-house  inspectors. 

At  last  all  is  arranged,  and  they  are  seat- 
ed in  the  quaint,  rattling  carriage,  drawn 
by  two  scrubby  horses,  ornamented  with 
plumes  and  jangling  bells;  the  postilion 
cracks  his  whip,  gives  an  unearthly  yell,  and 
away  they  go,  followed  by  the  shouts  of 
beggars  and  the  barking  of  dogs. 

They  stopped  a  few  moments  at  Palo  to 
change  horses. 

"  What  a  dreary,  romantic  place  1 "  cried 
Mrs.  Tremaine. 

And  indeed  it  was,  —  a  perfectly  level 
stretch  of  marshy  ground ;  a  castle  by  the  sea ; 
a  few  cottages  scattered  here  and  there ; 
herds  of  horses  and  sheep  tended  by  their 
respective  shepherds,  who  now  and  then 
droned  out  a  wild,  plaintive  wail  on  their 
pipes,  which  was  taken  up  by  one  and  an- 
other, and  repeated  far  away,  until  it  died 
into  distance  and  silence ;  a  white  mist, 
rising  spectre-like  over  the  land,  and  the 
sad  twilight  brooding  over  all. 

Near  the  little  osteria  was  an  immense 
cactus,  said  to  be  over  a  hundred  years  old ; 
it  was  fifteen  feet  high,  and  the  leaves  were 
ten  or  twelve  inches  thick,  and  were  com- 
pletely covered  with  names  and  dates  cut 
into  the  surface. 

"  What  a  strange  record  !  "  said  Mr.  Car- 
negie, laughing,  —  "a  unique  way  to  regis- 
ter one's  same.  However,  it  is  likely  to  be 
more  lasting  than  simple  paper  and  ink ;  and 
I  see  many  autographs  the  writers  of  which 
have  been  famous  for  the  last  fifty  years.  But, 
poor  old  book,  you  must  soon  close  up,  for 
your  leaves  are  all  full."  However,  he  Ibund 
a  little  place  on  a  sprouting  leaf,  and  added 
his  initials,  which  he  said  would  grow  and 
increase  in  size  long  after  he  was  dust  and 
ashes. 

So  they  went  on  their  way,  leaving  Palo 
by  the  sea  to  mist  and  darkness.  A  few 


WOVEN   OF   MANY   THREADS. 


hours  afterward  they  entered  the  gloomy 
Porta  Cavallegieri,  and  suddenly  came  un- 
der the  colonnades  and  into  the  square  of 
St.  Peter's.  The  vast  pile,  outlined  against 
the  blue-black  sky,  seemed  more  immense 
and  impressive  than  when  seen  under  the 
full  light  of  day. 

"  Now,"    they    all    exclaimed,    simulta- 
neously, "  we  know  we  are  in  Rome ! " 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

SANTO   SPIRITO. 

'•  The  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born, 

With  golden  stars  above, 

Dowered  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn, 
The  love  of  loviv' 

IN  the  autumn  of  1834,  some  twenty-five 
years  before   the   opening  of  our  story, 
the  nuns  of  the  foundling  hospital  of  Santo 
Spirito  at  Rome  were  gathered  in  the  re- 
fectory taking  their  comfortable  supper. 

"  What  a  hard  day  this  has  been  !  "  said 
Sister  Agatha,  the  sweet-looking  nun  who 
sat  always  in  the  camera  delta  rota'. 
"  Thirty-five  little  innocents,  and  none  of 
them  over  a  day  old  !  " 

"  Are  all  the  wards  full  ?  "  inquired  the 
Superior,  a  benevolent  nun  of  forty  years  or 
more. 

"  All  are  full,"  replied  Sister  Seraphina, 
the  guardian  of  the  wards ;  "  not  a  place  for 
another,  unless  a  little  one  who  came  Sun- 
day drops  off  to-night,  and  I  think  he  will 
before  another  hour.  Six  to-day !  It  is 
really  a  pretty  sight  to  sea  them  all  lying  in 
the  chapel  side  by  side  like  so  many  little 
marble  figures,  sweot  innocents  !  "  Sister 
Seraphina  was  interrupted  by  the  sudden 
and  imperative  sound  of  a  bell.  Sister 
Agatha,  starting  up,  exclaimed,  "  Madonna 
mia !  there  is  the  bell  again.  Thirty-six 
times  it -has  rung  to-day,  and  not  a  place 
for  another  child."  And,  taking  a  small 
lamp,  she  hastened  to  the  camera  della  rota, 
followed  by  Sister  Serajphina. 

The  wheel  turned,  and  there,  in  the  lit- 
tle velvet-lined  basket  with  the  golden  em- 
blem of  the  Santo  Spirito  on  the  canopy, 
lay  a  child  of  a  few  days  old,  so  lovely  that 
Sister  Agatha,  in  all  the  hundreds  she  had 
transferred  from  the  rota  to  the  ward 
basket,  had  never  seen  one  so  beautiful. 

"Angela  mio L"  she  exclaimed,  bending 
over  it,  entranced.  "  What  eyes,  and  such 
soft  little  curls !  and  how  fair  and  white ! 
Does  any  one  wish  to  speak  ?  "  she  inquired 
at  the  grating.  "  They  have  gone,"  she 
said,  "  and  in  a  hurry,"  as  no  answer  came. 
"  How  could  any  one  abandon  such  an 
angel  as  this  But  let  us  examine  him  to  see 
if  there  is  any  mark  or  name  by  which  he 
may  be  known." 

5 


"  Nothing,  I  declare,  said  Sister  Sera- 
phina ;  '•  but  see  how  fine  his  linen  is,  and 
what  rich  lace!  This  is  no 'common  lial.y. 
We  must  keep  watch  over  the  child  ;  there 
is  some  mystery  connected  with  him.  But 
what  shall  we  name  him  ?  I  am  sure  I  can 
think  of  nothing." 

"  To-day  is  San  Clemcnte  ;  but  we  can't 
name  them  all  after  the  same  saint,  —  thirty- 
six  Clementes  in  one  day  is  too  many." 

While  they  were  talking  the  child  lay 
quite  still  in  the  lap  of  Sister  Agatha,  look- 
ing in  her  face  with  large,  solemn  brown 
eyes.  Suddenly  he  broke  into  a  little  pitiful 
wail ;  the  nun  pressed  him  to  her  In-art  and 
soothed  him  gently.  "  I  have  decided,"  she 
said,  after  a  few  moments'  thought,  and  her 
eyes  were  filled  with  tears  as  she  spoke. 
"  I  will  name  him  for  my  only  brother, 
who  died  a  few  weeks  ago ;  yes,  I  will 
name  him  Guido,  —  Guide  Bernardo."  So 
she  opened  the  book  and  registered  it,  — 
No.  36,  October  23, —  md  stamped  it  with 
the  seal  of  the  Holy  Spirit. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  "  tell  Padre  Filippo 
there  is  another  to  baptize,  and  we  will 
take  him  to  the  chapel." 

They  found  a  priest  waiting, —  a  dull,  fat 
man  in  a  dirty  surplice,  and  rather  cross 
because  he  had  been  interrupted  in  the 
midst  of  his  supper.  When  he  saw  the 
child  ne  muttered,  "  Another ! "  and  crossed 
himself  as  if  he  feared  contamination  from 
the  innocent  who  smiled  in  his  lace.  He 
took  the  oil  from  the  altar-boy  and  rubbed 
it  behind  the  ears,  and  crammed  his 
finger  covered  with  salt  into  the  dear  little 
mouth,  at  which  the  child  wailed  piteously. 
He  then  sprinkled  it  freely  with  water, 
mumbled  over  the  name  Sister  Agatha  had 
given  him,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  its 
forehead  and  breast,  and  then  went  away  to 
finish  his  supper,  feeling  that  he  had  added 
one  more  lamb  to  the  fold  of  Christ. 

As  they  turned  to  leave  the  chapel  they 
were-  met  at  the  door  by  one  of  the  nurses, 
who  carried  a  little  cold,  stark  figure;  it 
was  the  baby  who  was  brought  on  Sunday, 
and  had  died  just  in  time  to  leave  its  bed 
to  the  new-comer.  Sister  Seraphina  took  it 
from  the  woman,  and,  turning  to  a  sort  of 
shelf  before  the  altar  covered  with  a  white 
sheet,  she  laid  it  down  side  by  side  with  six 
other  little  marble  figures,  their  pinched 
baby  faces  wearing  a  look  of  prematut 
pitiful  to  behold.  They  composed  its  ten- 
der limbs,  and  Sister  Seraphina,  bending 
over  it,  said,  softly,  "  Sicjnor  mio,  have 
mercy  on  this  little  soul,  and  may  it  be  with 
Thee  to-night  in  paradise !  Seven  more 
angels  to  sing  before  the  Madonna.  Thank 
God  they  are  gone!"  And  sighing  softly. 
•=he  turned  away  and  left  the  little  sleepers 
before  the  altar,  with  the  dim  light  from  the 
swinging  lamp  falling  over  them.  Tho  next 


WOVEN"   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


morning  they  would  ba  laid  away  in  a  cold, 
dark  grave  in  the  Campo  Santo,  with  a 
little  nameless  white  cross  above  the  spot. 

Sister  Agatha  selected  the  healthiest, 
sweetest-tempered  nurse  for  her  little  charge, 
and  did  not  leave  him  until  she  saw  him 
sleeping  in  the  most  comfortable  bed.  She 
kissed  him  over  and  over,  and  drew  the 
curtains  together  with  a  lingering  fond- 
ness. 

Many  poor  little  abandoned  children 
came,  suffered  a  few  days,  and  then  died,  or 
were  taken  away  from  the  hospital  to  be 
nursed ;  the  number  of  the  arrivals  did  not 
decrease,  neither  did  the  number  of  deaths. 
Yet  the  little  Guido  grew  and  flourished, 
and  every  day  added  something  to  his  in- 
fantine loveliness.  Sister  Agatha  and  Sister 
Seraphina  tried  which  could  exceed  the 
other  in  attention  and  affection.  And  ths 
nurse  declared  it  was  never  a  mortal  baby, 
but  a  little  angel  sent  from  heaven  to  make 
them  all  batter  and  more  patient.  "  It  smiles 
always,  and  yet  there  is  something  in  its 
face  that  haunts  me,  and  I  can  never  for- 
get it,  even  when  I  close  my  eyes  in  the 
night." 

One  day,  about  six  weeks  after -the  child 
had  come,  Sister  Agatha  sat  alone  in  the 
camera  della  rota,  engaged  in  arranging 
her  books  for  the  approaching  examfhation 
of  the  directors.  Soune  one  tapped  at  tho 
door.  "Entrate,''  she  said  without  looking  up. 
When  she  raised  her  eyes  a  short,  dark 
woman  stood  before  her,  —  a  rather  plain, 
but  honest  face,  with  a  large  crimson  mark 
on  the  left  cheek.  She  was  neatly  and 
plainly  dressed  as  a  servant,  in  a  shawl, 
with  a  white  kerchief  over  her  head  ;  she 
looked  sad,  and  her  eyes  were  red  with 
wesping. 

"  Well,  Filomena,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ? 
Are  you  in  trouble  again  ?  Have  you  lost 
another  baby  ?  "  • 

"  Ah,  Madonna  mia  I  I  have  lost  my 
only  one,  my  last  baby,  and  he  was  so 
bright  and  healthy  until  a  few  hours  before 
his  death.  It  is  the  fourth,  and  I  have  no 
courage  to  bear  it  patiently.  I  dislike  to 
put  another  baby  to  my  breast,  but  I  must ; 
rny  milk  will  not  dry  up,  so  I  have  come  for 
a  nursling.  Ah,  misera  me .'  it  is  the  fourth 
time  I  have  come." 

"  The  wards  are  very  full,  and  we  are 
glad  to  send  some  of  the  children  out.  Come 
in  and  select  one ;  but  I  suppose  if  you  have 
another  child  you  will  bring  it  back." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  woman.  "  I  am  too 
poor  to  keep  a  child  long  that  is  not 
mine." 

They  entered  the  ward,  and  Filomena 
passed  from  one  bed  to  another,  raising  the 
curtains  and  looking  with  close  scrutiny  at 
each  little  sleeper,  until  she  paused  at  the 
cot  of  Guido  and  exclaimed,  "  Here  is 


one  I  will  take ;  it  is  like  the  child  I  have 
lost !  " 

"  No,  no  !  "  said  Sister  Agatha  almost 
fiercely,  "  not  that  one ;  we  can 't  spare  him, 
he  is  our  little  pet.  Take  any  other  "  ;  and 
she  bent  over  the  child  as  if  to  shield  him 
from  danger. 

The  little  creature  awoke  and  smiled  in  her 
face.  "Angela  mio,"  she  said,  "they  shall 
not  take  thee  away  "  ;  and  kissing  it  over 
and  over  she  left  the  bed. 

As  she  turned  she  saw  the  woman  leaving 
the  ward. 

"  What !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  are  you  not 
goins  to  take  a  child  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  replied,  sullenly,  "  not  unless  I 
can  have  that;  he  is  like  my  dear  baby,  and 
I  could  love  him.  I  can 't  take  another ; 
beside,  you  said  I  could  have  my  choice." 

"  It  is  true,  -Filomena,  —  it  is  true,  you 
can  have  your  choice.  It  is  one  of  the  laws 
of  the  institution  to  show  no  partiality,  and  I 
have  no  right  to  interfere  between  you  and 
your  choice,"  replied  Sister  Agatha  with 
tears  in  her  eyes.  "  But  I  love  (his  little 
thing,  and  I  can't  bear  to  lose  it.  The 
Blessed  Virgin  is  kind ;  she  knows  I  am  fixing 
my  affections,  that  should  all  belcng  to  her 
and  her  dear  Sen,  on  this  child,  and  so  she 
sends  you  to  take  him  away  to  save  me  from 
further  sin.  To-night  1  will  repeat  forty 
times  '  Hail  Mary,'  and  the  Mother  of  God 
will  forgive  me.  Yes,  Filcmena,  you  may 
have  the  child,  but  be  good  to  him." 

She  took  the  sweet  baby  in  her  armp, 
pressed  her  pale  cheek  against  his  rosy  little 
face,  kissed  over  and  over  the  rings  of  his 
glossy  hair,  then,  making  the  si»n  of  the 
cross  on  his  breast,  she  wrapped  him  in  a 
warm,  thick  blanket  and  gave  him  to  Filo- 
mena. "  Bring  him  to  me  once  a  week,  so 
that  I  may  see  that  he  is  doing  well,"  she 
said,  in  a  husky  voice. 

The  woman  premised  to  do  so,  and  went 
away  with  her  precious  burden. 

Poor  Sister  Agatha  walked  slowly  back 
to  the  camera  della  rota  with  a  great  va- 
cancy in  her  heart;  mere  than  once  she 
pressed  her  crucifix  to  her  lips  and  mur- 
mured earnestly  &  pater  nosier.  Alter  that, 
the  nurses  noticed  that  she  did  not  visit 
the  wards  as  often  as  when  the  little  Guido 
was  there. 

Every  week  Filomena  brought  the  child 
to  Sister  Agatha,  who  found  him  more  love- 
ly and  interesting  each  time.  The  poor 
nun's  sad  face  lighted  up  with  joy  when  she 
pressed  him  to  her  bosom,  and  if  by  chance 
his  little  caressing  hand  touched  her  thin 
cheek,  a  flush  would  rest  there  a  moment 
and  then  die  away,  leaving  her  paler  than 
before.  She  would  put  the  child  suddenly 
from  her  as  though  she  had  been  guilty  of 
some  crime  because  she  had  listened  to  the 
yearning  cries  of  her  woman's  heart. 


WOVEN    OF   MANY  THREADS. 


35 


One  day,  when  he  was  a  few  months  old, 
Filomena  brought  him  back  and '  gave  him 
into  the  arms  of  Sister  Agatha,  saying,  with 
choking  sobs,  that  her  husband  would  not 
allow  her  to  keep  him  any  longer,  because 
she  had  procured  a  situation  in  an  English 
family  that  required  all  her  attention. 

"  I  cannot  bear  to  part  with  him  an  hour, 
I  love  him  so,  and  he  is  so  good  and  gentle. 
Angela  mio,  Guido  mio,"  she  said  over  and 
over,  pressing  pussiimate  kisses  on  his  little 
hands  and  face  before  she  left  him. 

Sister  Seraphina's  rosy,  good-natured  face 
broke  into  radiant  smiles  when  she  saw  the 
child  brought  back  to  the  ward  again  ;  and 
Sister  Agatha  said  more  pater  no-tiers  than 
ever  that  night,  but  still  there  was  a  look  of 
sweet  contentment  on  her  face  that  had  not 
been  there  for  some  time. 

From  that  hour  the  little  Guido,  in  spite 
of  the  laws  of  the  institution,  became  the 
pet  of  the  whole  sisterhood ;  even  the  Su- 
perior often  had  him  for  hours  in  her  room, 
and  when  he  commenced  to  walk,  dozens 
of  loving  hands  were  stretched  out  to  support 
his  tottering  steps  and  guard  him  from  all 
danger,  and  the  first  utterance  of  those 
baby  nothings,  those  meaningless  little 
sounds,  were  often  converted  into  words  of 
profound  wisdom.  O^her  poor,  ugly,  pitiful 
little  babies  came  and  went,  with  scarcely 
proper  attention,  while  this  little  baauty 
was  pampered  and  petted  as  much  as  was 
ever  the  only  heir  to  a  noble  house,  and  yet 
no  one  knew  aught  of  his  birth.  Sister 
Agatha  spent  hours  in  dreaming  of  the 
probable  future  of  this  -child,  for  she  never 
doubted  that  he  was  of  noble  or  even 
princely  birth  ;  and  never  did  a  grand  car- 
riage drive  up  to  the  hospital,  and  an  ele- 
gant-looking lady  or  gentleman  alight,  to 
visit  the  institution,  but  her  poor  heart 
would  throb  with  an  agony  of  fear  that  his 
parents  had  come  to  claim  him,  or  some 
rich,  childless  people  would  wish  to  adopt 
him.  Her  first  impulse  would  be  to  hide 
him,  then  she  would  remember  how  sinful 
such  thoughts  were,  and  impose  an  extra 
penance  on  herself.  But  no  one  claimed 
him,  neither  did  any  one  offer  to  adopt 
him.  Perhaps  the  casual  glance  of  the  visit- 
or did  not  detect  the  beauty  in  the  child 
that  the  poor  nuns  saw  when  they,  in 
their  thoughts,  likened  him.  to  the  infant 
Jesu«. 

Every  week  Filomena-  came  to  see  him, 
bringing  with  her  toys  and  bvnbon*,  to  pro- 
cure which  she  had  often  robbed  herself 
of  the  very  necessities  of  life.  She  always 
spoke  of  him  with  strange  authority,  saying 
that  when  matters  went  better  with  them 
shs  should  take  him  again. 

So  time  passed  on,  and  Guido  reached  his 
eighth  year,  as  beautiful  and  intelligent 
a  child  as  ever  was  seen.  He  came  and 


went,  wandering  at  will  through  the  wards 
and  long  corridors,  prattling  French  with 
the  French  nuns  and  Italian  with  the  Ital- 
ians. Sister  Agatha  taught  him  in 
and  the  happiest  hours  of  her  life  wore. 
when  she  held  the  child  on  her  lap,  and 
heard  his  sweet  innocent  lips  murmur  some 
little  verse  or  prayer  s-he  had  taught  him. 
He  was  not  a  gay  child  ;  he  seldom  laughed 
aloud,  and  was  never  noisy  at  his  play,  but 
was  always  gentle  and  docile.  It  seemed 
as  though  some  sorrow  had  marked  him 
before  his  birth  and  still  rested  upon 
him. 

The  nun  would  often  look  into  his  face, 
with  .its  broad  intelligent  Ion  he  ul.  around 
which  clustered  curls  of  soft  brown  hair,  its 
straight  aristocratic  features  and  melan- 
choly eyes,  and  wonder  what  talent  was 
pent  up  in  the  little  brain;  for  she  m -u-r 
doubted  that  he  would  prove  to  be  a  <ii cat 
genius,  and  would  one  day  astonish  the 
world. 

One  afternoon  he  was  in  the  garden  alone, 
kneeling  before  the  fountain  and  dabbling 
his  little  hands  in  the  water  that  overran 
the  basin.  Sister  Agatha  watched  him 
from  the  window,  while  he  played  in  an  ab- 
stracted sort  of  way  unusual  in  children, 
moving  his  hands  up  and  down  in  rhythmic: 
motion,  while  his  eyes  were  fixed  dreamily 
on  the  blue  sky. 

"  The  little  angel,  what  can  he  be  think- 
ing of?  I  dare  say  the  blessed  Madonna  is 
speaking  to  him,"  she  said,  foftly.  "  She 
will  not  leave  such  a  cherub  long  to  us  poor 
sinners." 

At  that  moment  a  bird  alighted  on  the 
edge  of  the  fountain,  and,  turning  its  head 
on  one  side,  began  to  warble  a  clear,  sweet 
song. 

The  child  regarded  it  a  moment,  and  then, 
without  changing  the  dotion  of  his  hands, 
he  commenced  to  imitate  the  notes;  at  first 
low  and  sweet,  then  clearer  and  louder,  until 
his  voice  rose  to  the  shrill  soprano  of  the 
feathered  fonister. 

Sister  Agatha  listened  enchanted.  "Ah," 
she  said,  "  it  is  music  he  loves.  I  will  teach 
him,  and  one  day  he  will  become  a  great 
maestro." 

That  same  evening  when  the  setting  sun 
was  painting  a  golden  aureole  around  the 
head  of  the  Madonna  over  the  altar  in  the 
little  chapel,  the  nun  took  Guido  by  the 
hand  and  led  him  to  the  picture  to  say  his 
Ave  Marih.  A  sudden  thought  seemed  to 
enter  her  mind,  for  she  seated  In  r-elf  at  the 
orian,  which  was  rarely  used,  and  played 
s  il'tly  a  few  bars  of  one  of  Beethoven's  sym- 
phonies, all  the  while  watcliin-i  (lie  face  of 
the  child.  A  hundred  varying  ex;n->'nns 
pa.-1-ed  over  it,  and  when  she  finished  be 
said  in  a  suppressed  voice.  '•  .-1  >,i;.r<i." 
She  repeated  it  several  times,  then,  much  to 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


her  astonishment,  his  little  fingers  strayed 
over  the  keys,  touching  almost  always  the 
same  notes  she  had  played.  From  that 
nit*ht  dated  the  commencement  of  his  musi- 
cal instruction.  Sister  Agatha  devoted 
every  spare  moment  to  this  new  pleasure. 
It  was  astonishing  how  rapidly  he  learned 
to  repeat  everything  he  heard.  Sometimes 
the  Superior  took  him  to  the  Church  of 
Santo  Spirito  to  hear  vespers.  He  would 
go  into  the  little  chapel  after  his  return  and 
repeat  correctly  nearly  all  he  had  heard. 

One  day  the  Pope  came  to  say  high 
mass  at  Santo  Spirito,  and  Guido  sang 
with  a  choir  of  little  boys.  It  was  a  scene 
he  never  forgot.  The  great  church  was 
hung  with  crimson  and  gold,  and  aglow  with 
hundreds  of  lighted  tapers ;  the  pictures 
were  all  uncovered,  and  the  high  altar  was 
adorned  with  flowers  and  with  gold  and  sil- 
ver candlesticks.  When  the  Pope  entered, 
followed  by  the  long  procession  of  cardi- 
nals, bishops,  priests,  and  guards,  the  child's 
delight  knew  no  bounds.  When  the  mu- 
sic began,  and  the  chorus  of  young  voices 
joined,  the  little  soul*  rose,  pulsed,  and 
throbbed  with  the  first  aspiration  of  genius, 
and  overflowed  in  a  strain  of  such  pure  and 
liquid  soprano  that  every  eye  was  turned 
to  the  orchestra,  and  all  said  that  some 
little  angel  had  descended  among  them,  for 
never  before  were  such  heavenly  strains 
heard  on  earth.  When  the  mass  was  finished 
the  Pope  asked  for  the  little  singer,  and 
Guido  was  brought,  trembling  with  excite- 
ment, into  the  presence  of  his  Holiness,  who 
blessed  him,  and  told  him  he  must  go  to  the 
College  of  San  Michele  to  study,  and  in  a 
few  years  he  should  become  one  of  his  choir 
and  sing  for  him  always. 

The  child  went  back  to  the  hospital,  his 
little  heart  bounding  with  joy  ;  but  when  he 
told  Sister  Agatha  she  only  pressed  him  to 
her  bosom  and  burst  into  tears. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

SAN     MICHELE. 

A  FEW  days  after  Guido  sang  before  the 
Pope  a  cardinal's  carriage  drew  up  at 
the  door  of  Santo  Spirito,  and  a  cardinal 
entered  and  asked  for  an  interview  with  the 
Superior.  After  a  little  conversation  Guido 
was  sent  for,  and  he  was  told  to»sing  before 
bis  lordship.  He  instantly  complied,  filling 
the  dingy  little  room  with  such  a  flood  of 
melody  that  his  listener  was  astonished,  and 
exclaimed, "  It  is  true,  he  has  a  wonderful 
voice,  and  he  must  begin  to  study  at  once 
in  the  College  of  San  Miehele.  To-morrow  I 
will  send  him  a  permission  to  enter,  and  will 
speak  to  the  maestro  to  devote  himself  partic- 


ularly to  the  cultivation  of  this  exquisite  tal- 
ent." He  patted  the  boy  on  the  head,  and 
looked  into  the  soft  brown  eyes  with  inquir- 
ing interest,  which  at  once  won  the  child's 
confidence  and  love ;  and  from  that  time 
he  became  the  warm  friend  and  patron  of 
Guido. 

The  next  day  the  boy  bade  a  lingering 
adieu  to  Sister  Agatha,  the  nuns,  the  wards, 
the  garden,  and  the  long  corridors  where 
his  baby  feet  had  trod,  —  the  only  home  he 
had  ever  known.  Filomena  was  there,  hold- 
ing by  the  hand  a  little  dark-eyed  girl  of  nine 
years,  who  was  born  a  few  months  after  she 
brought  Guido  back  to  the  hospital.  The 
children  in  their  frequent  but  short  inter- 
views had  become  last  friends,  always  call- 
ing each  other  "  brother "  and  "  sister." 
The  boy  kissed  her  over  and  over,  filled  her 
little  apron  with,  his  worn-out  toys,  and  said, 
fondly,  "  Addio,  sorella  mia.  When  I  have 
left  the  college  I  shall  come  to  live  always 
with  you." 

Sister  Agatha  led  him  reluctantly  to  the 
priest  who  was  waiting  to  accompany  him, 
gave  him  many  last  words  of  advice,  and 
impressed  upon  him  to  come  as  often  as 
once  a  week  to  see  her. 

He  promised  all  she  asked  in  a  voice 
choked  with  sobs,  kissed  her  with  deep 
affection,  that  never  changed  or  diminished 
in  all  his  after  life,  and,  taking  the  hand  of 
the  priest,  the  child  went  out  from  under 
the  shadow  of  Santo  Spirito  to  begin  the 
life  of  the  man. 

When  he  had  laid  aside  his  little  jacket, 
and  put  on  the  straight  black  frock,  the  man- 
tle, and  the  broad-brimmed  hat  of  the  in- 
stitution, he  already  looked  some  years  old- 
er. Every-  one  would  have  singled  this 
child  out  from  all  the  others  as  something 
superior.  His  delicate,  spiritual  face,  his 
large,  melancholy  eyes,  his  soft,  curling 
brown  hair,  his  small  hands  and  feet,  and 
his  graceful  and  dignified  bearing,  separated 
him  from  the  vulgar  herd.  The  very  per- 
fections that  set  him  aside  from  the  others 
also  made  him  a  butt  for  petty  jealousy  and 
envy,  which  arc  as  apparent  in  children  as 
in  older  persons.  Then  commenced  for  the 
poor  boy  a  series  of  annoyances  and  perse- 
cutions which  he,  petted  and  cherished  as  he 
had  been  by  the  good  sisters,  found  it  difficult 
to  endure  patiently.  However,  he  seldom 
complained  ;  if  he  found  his  music-copies  torn 
and  blotted,  his  favorite  books  hidden,  the 
stops  of  the  organ  filled  with  paper ;  or  if  he 
was  saluted  with  shouts  and  laughs  of  deris- 
ion ;  if,  instead  of  joining  in  their  rough  games 
at  recreation,  he  preferred  to  sit  apart  with 
a  book,  — yet  there  was  something  in  the  boy, 
that,  in  spite  of  their  petty  malice,  inspired 
them  with  a  sort  of  respect  and  fear  that 
kept  them  at  a  certain  distance.  And  he 
even  had  his  followers ;  some  few  who  dared 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


37 


to  show  their  preference  were  devoted,  and 
almost  slavish,  in  their  attachment.  He 
found  his  bed  hard  and  dirty,  his  cell 
dark  and  damp,  his  food  poor  and  scanty ; 
yet  he  cared  for  none  of  these  things.  Mu- 
sic was  his  passion,  and  he  applied  himself 
with  never-wearying  industry. 

The  maestro,  although  he  was  a  cruel, 
coarse  man,  was  nevertheless  a  good  teacher, 
developing  to  the  utmost  the  talent  that  had 
been  placed  under  his  charge  by  one  of  the 

•eatest  patrons  of  music  in  Koine.      The 


boy  grew  slighter  and  more  spiritual  each 
day,  and  Cardinal  Catrucci,  when  he  visited 
the  institution,  would  say,  "  He  studies 
too  hard,  he  must  have  more  exercise  and 
amusement.  Why  does  he  not  play  with 
the  other  boys  during  the  hours  of  recrea- 
tion ?  " 

"  He  never  will,"  replied  the  priest. 
"  While  the  others  are  shouting  and  halloo- 
ing, running  and  racing,  he  walks  slowly  up 
and  down  under  the  trees,  his  head  bent 
over  a  book,  or  sits  in  the  garden,  with  his 
arms  folded,  looking  at  the  sky;  and  in- 
stead of  sleeping  he  gets  out  of  bed,  and 
goes  stealing  down  the  stairs,  and  through  : 
the  dark  passages  to  the  chapel,  where  he  | 
plays  all  sorts  of  odd  wild  tunes  ;  but  now 
the  maestro  has  put  a  stop  to  that ;  he  won't 
have  us  disturbed  at  night  by  the  freaks  of 
this  half-uiad  boy." 

"E  un  rajazzo  tanto  curioso"  said  the 
Cardinal,  slowly  walking  away  and  shaking 
his  head  thoughtfully. 

Guido's  chief  happiness  was  to  sing  in  the 
churches  on  festa  days ;  there  was  some- 
thing intoxicating  in  the  decorations,  the 
lights,  the  flowers,  the  pictures,  the  crowds 
of  people,  and  the  strains  of  the  orchestra, 
that  almost  made  him  forget  he  was  on  ! 
earth.  And  indeed  he  sang  as  though  he 
were  already  an  angel  in  heaven.  People 
came  from  far  and  near  to  hear  the  boy 
sing,  and  before  he  was  twelve  years  old  he 
was  looked  upon  as  a  prodigy. 

One  day,  when  Guido  was  fifteen,  there 
was  a  great  festa  in  Santo  Spirito,  where  he 
had  first  su'ng  before  the  Pope.  The  church 
was  crowded  to  overflowing.  Sister  Agatha 
and  Filomena  were  there,  both  looking  with 
pride  at  their  boy,  who  stood  in  the  orches- 
tra, his  arms  folded,  his  head  thrown  back 
with  an  air  of  conscious  superiority,  waiting 
for  his  solo. 

In  all  his  after  life.Guiio  Bernardo  never 
forgot  that  day.  The  memory  of  the  lights, 
the  crowd  of  eager,  upturned  faces,  the  sud- 
den hush  of  expectation,  the  first  strains  of 
the  orchestra,  and  the  dim  blank  that  fol- 
lowed, often  made  a  cold  sweat  start  on  his 
brow,  and  a  choking  sensation  fill  his  throat 
for  a  moment,  when,  years  from  that  time,  he 
arose  to  sing  before  a  large  audience. 

The  leader  raised  his  baton,  the  stringed 


instruments  wailed  out  a  few  notes ;  Guido 
glanced  at  his  music  and  opened  his  mouth, 
but  instead  of  sweet  liquid  strains  t!i 
sued  only  harsh,  discordant  sounds;  In- 
paused,  cleared  his  throat,  made  another 
effort,  but  in  vain ;  his  voice  was  gone ! 
Alas,  he  could  not  sing  !  The  loader  looked 
at  him  severely^  a  murmur  rose  from  the 
crowd,  the  orchestra  sounded  miles  awav, 
the  lights  danced  and  whirled,  and  then 
everything  grew  black  and  indistinct,  and 
the  boy  fell,  pale  anl  unconscious,  into  the 
arms  of  a  singer  behind  him. 

They  carried  him  to  the  hospital,  where 
he  lay  for  many  weeks  ill  with  l.\. 
delirium.      Sister   Agatha    and    the    nuns 
tended  him  day  and  night  with  um\v 
care.     At  last  he  was  convalescent,  but  the 
shadow  of  himself,  —  more  spiritual,   more 
melancholy  than  ever.     It  was  the  fir-: 
disappointment  of  his  life,  the  first  check  to 
his  ambitious  dreams.     He  had  fancied  hU 
future  a  scene  of  successes :  he  had  looked 
forward  eagerly  to  the  time  when,  his  Miid- 
ies  ended,  he  should  enter  the  service  of  the 
Pope,  his  proudest  desire.     Xow  what  had 
he  to  live  for  ?  His  voice  was  gone,  hi.- 
ended  before  it  had   scarcely  begun.     He 
thought  with  agony  of  the  lost  homage  and 
flattery  of  his  audiences,  the  murmurs  of  de- 
light and  admiration  that  he  rdiotild  hear  no 
more ;  his  fellows  had  worshipped  him  t'or  a 
little  while,  and  the  boy  was  not  insensible 
to  the  allurements  of  fame.     Now  it  was  fin- 
ished, and  perhaps  the  bitterest  drop  in  his 
cup  was  the  thought  of  the  exultant  triumph 
of  his  fellow-students,  many  of  whom, 
while  tlu'y  cringed  and  fawned  to  him  in  the 
days  of  his  prosperity,  hated  him  with  ail  the 
strength  of  envy  and  jealousy.     He  \r 
to  himself  the  severity  and  unkindness  of 
the  maestro,   whose  interest  in  him  would 
en    because  he  no  longer  had  l ! 
do  him  credit.      And  sometimes  ];>•   even 
feared  he  should    lose  the  friendship   and 
patronage  of  the  Cardinal. 

Poor  boy,  after  he  was  fully  recovered  he 
went  back  to  San  Michele,  little  caring 
what  became  of  him.  If  it  had  not 
for  the  patient  encouragement,  the  wise  and 
tender  counsel  of  Sister  A;_aiha.  and  the 
unchanzin-JT  affection  of  Filomena.  he  would 
have  sunk  entirely  under  his  terrible  (li-aj)- 
pointment.  As  it  was,  his  nature  seemed  to 
have  changed.  He  was  no  lonjyr  sweet 
and  gentle,  but  silent,  moody,  and 
sullen;  he  seemed  to  have,  grown  taller  and 
older  by  years  during  the  lew  weeks  of  ill- 
ness and  mental  suffering.  Hi;'  lir.-t  act 
when  he  entered  the  College  was  i<>  collect 
together  his  nmsic-b  .  half- 

finished   compositions,   and    put   them    all 
away  out  of  his  sight. 

"  I  shall  renounce  the  study  of  music  and 
devote  myself  to  something  else,"  he  .-aid 


38 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


to  the  maestro,  who  paid  little   attention 
to  him  since  he  had  ceased  to  be  a  prod- 

"  As  you  please,"  he  replied,  coldly ;  "  but 
losing  your  voice  does  not  prevent  you 
from"  becoming  a  creditable  performer  if 
you  study  closely." 

"  I  have  no  desire,"  said  the  boy,  gloom- 
ily. "  In  fact,  I  hate  the  sound  of  mu- 
sic." 

There  was  no  more  stealing  down  dark 
passages  at  midnight  into  the  chapel,  no 
more  hours  of  dreamy  twilight  devoted  to 
sweet  and  tender  harmony,  that  had  filled 
his  voung  soul  with  ecstasy.  Something 
seemed  to  have  gone  out  of  his  life ;  all  the 
greenness  and  beauty  had  faded  into  dull 
cold  gray.  He  was  like  Beethoven,  who, 
after  he  had  lost  his  hearing,  seemed  also 
to  have  lost  his  sight. 

In  this  College,  where  the  sciences  as  well 
as  the  fine  arts  were  taught,  he  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  finding  some  other  employment  for 
his  thoughts  and  time.  Now  books  became 
his  only  companions ;  he  struggled  with 
Greek,  Latin,  metaphysics,  and  philosophy ; 
he  experimented  in  chemistry  and  geology ; 
he  triad  to  turn  the  desires  of  his  life  into 
now  channels.  But  in  vain;  foijever  in  his 
ears  sounded  almost  mockingly  sweet  strains 
of  bewitching  melody,  and  ever  before  his 
eyes  were  passing  combinations  of  notes 
that  he  knew  would  produce  harmonious 
sounds ;  but  still  he  turned  resolutely  away 
from .  their  temptations,  saying,  "  No,  no, 
you  have  proved  a  fickle  mistress ;  you  have 
disappointed  me  once,  and  I  now  renounce 
you  forever." 

He  lived  a  life  apart  from  his  fellow- 
students,  he  held  no  more  intercourse  with 
them  than  was  absolutely  necessary.  Nei- 
ther did  he  endure  any  longer  with  pa- 
tience their  sneers  and  taunts.  A  sudden 
pallor,  a  flash  of  lurid,  portentous  fire  from 
the  brown  eyes,  warned  them  that  there 
was  a  lion  slumbering  under  the  fleece  of 
the  lamb,  which  it  was  best  not  to  arouse. 
So  gradually  they  fell  off,  avoided  him, 
and  left  him  entirely  to  his  own  devices.  To 
no  one  but  Sister  Agatha  and  the  Cardinal 
did  he  express  the  disappointment  of  his 
retired  life.  The  nun  would  soothe  him 
gently,  telling  him  if  he  never  sang  again 
on  earth  he  would  sing  more  sweetly  before 
the  Madonna  in  heaven.  And  the  old  Car- 
dinal, whose  friendship  and  kindness  never 
abated,  would  with  more  worldly  wisdom 
encourage  him  to  be  patient,  and  later  his 
voice  would  return  to  him  sweeter  and 
stronger  than  ever;  but  Guido  would  only 
shake  his  head  mournfully  and  reply,  his 
eyes  overflowing  with  tears,  "  No,  no,  it  is 
gone  forever." 

Through  the  influence  of  Cardinal  Ca- 
trucci  he  had  had  a  small  cell  ajskjned  to 


him  alone,  and  there  he  often  spent  most 
of  the  night  in  chemical  experiments,  or 
trying  resolutely  to  solve  some  scientific 
problem,  which  too  often  resulted  in  failure 
and  disappointment.  Still  he  found  in  it  a 
sort  of  unsatisfactory  satisfaction,  if  one 
might  use  the  term,  for  it  served  to  distract 
his  thoughts  from  the  one  absorbing  sub- 
ject. The  other  students  mockingly  called 
him  matto,  and  left  him  to  live  out  his  days 
in  loneliness  and  sadness.  The  two  years 
that  followed  the  loss  of  his  voice  were 
years  of  bitter  trial,  hopelessness,  and  de- 
spair to  poor  Guido ;  but  nevertheless  the 
discipline  served  to  strengthen  and  develop 
his  character,  and  his  studies  opened  new 
avenues  of  knowledge  that  would  have  re- 
mained forever  closed  if  he  had  devoted 
himself  only  to  his  beloved  art. 

From  the  very  first  hour  Guido  entered 
the  College  he  understood  and  telt  that  the 
maestro's  interest  in  him  was  not  sincere, 
only  assumed  to  please  the  Cardinal,  whose 
patronage  he  desired.  After  the  loss  of  his 
voice,  as/he  had  no  longer  any  motive  for 
acting  the  part  he  Ifad  undertaken,  he  let 
no  opportunity  pass  that  offered  a  chance 
to  insult  or  impose  some  new  burden  on  the 
poor  boy,  who  at  last  determined  to  endure 
it  no  longer.  He  was  an  exquisite  copyist 
of  music,  and  for  a  long  time  the  maestro, 
unknown  to  the  principal  of  the  College, 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  taking  manuscript 
from  the  different  churches  to  rewrite  and 
arrange.  This  he  gave  Guido  to  do,  who 
at  first  complied  willingly  ;  but  when  he 
saw  that  his  task  increased  each  day,  and 
interfered  with  his  studies,  it  grew  very 
irksome,  and  at  last  became  a  thorough 
drudgery. 

One  morning  he  sat  at  his  desk  with  a 
scientific  work  open  before  him.  He  was 
not  studying ;  his  head  ached  and  throbbed 
in  an  unusual  manner.  His  eyes  were  hot 
and  tired,  for  he  had  not  slept  the  night  be- 
fore until  nearly  dawn,  and  these  vigils  were 
telling  upon  him.  "  How  will  all  this  end  ?  ' 
he  thought,  taking  a  gloomy  retrospect  of 
the  last  two  years,  —  "  how  will  it  end  ?  I 
am  wasting  my  health  and  youth  in  pursu- 
ing a  shadow ;  my  life  is  aimless.  I  shall 
arrive  at  nothing  because  I  strive  for  noth- 
ing. The  only  pursuit  I  really  loved,  and 
would  have  devoted  my  life  to,  is  impossible 
to  me  now.  Why  did  God  give  me  that 

florious  voice  and  then  take  it  away  just  as 
had  learned  to  prize  it  ?  "  His  sad  cogi- 
tations were  interrupted  by  the  maestro, 
who  laid  before  him  some  sheets  of  music, 
bidding  him,  in  a  harsh,  authoritative  tone, 
to  copy  them  immediately. 

"  I  cannot,"  replied  Guido,  firmly  ;  "  my 
studies  require  all  my  time,  and  you  have 
no  right  to  exact  this  of  me." 

The  maestro  looked  at  him  a  moment  m 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


mute  astonishment,  and  then  said,  in  a  voice 
choked  with  rage,  "  Insolent !  How  dare 
you  disobey  me '{  Give  it  to  me  completed 
before  night,  or  you  will  repent  not  having 
done  it." 

Guido  pushed  the  manuscript  away  from 
him  with  a  look  of  proud  determination  on 
his  face  as  he  said,  "  I  will  not  touch  it !  I 
will  never  copy  another  bar  of  music  for 
you  again  !  "  He  had  scarcely  finished  the 
sentence  when  a  stinging  blow  in  the  face 
staggered  and  almost  blinded  him. 

Before  the  hand  that  dealt  the  blow  had 
fallen,  he  sprang  at  the  throat  of  the  maestro 
with  the  agility  and  strength  of  a  young 
tiger,  his  face  deadly  pale,  his  nostrils  dis- 
tended, and  his  eyes  like  glowing  coals  of 
fire. 

"  Canct'i'la ! ''  he  said,  between  his  clenched 
teeth ;  and  he  tightened  his  grasp  until  the 
priest's  face  grew  purple  and  his  eyes  rolled 
in  their  sockets,  then,  with  a  long  look  of 
scorn* and  contempt,  he  threw  him  heavily 
to  the  ground. 

The  noise  brought  a  half-dozen  priests 
to  the  spot  in  a  moment,  and  Guido  was 
dragged  away  to  a  small  dark  cell,  —  a 
place  of  punishment  for  all  unruly  stu- 
dents. 

There,  his  whole  soul  struggling  with  rage 
and  indignation,  his  face  still  smarting 
from  the  stinging  blow,  he  threw  himself 
on  the  pile  of  straw  that  served  for  a  bed, 
and  gave  vent  to  his  overwrought  feelings 
in  convulsive  sobs. 

"  O  Christ !  "  he  moaned,  "  hast  thou  for- 
gotten the  suffering  of  thy  life  that  thou 
hast  no  pity  on  me  ?  I  would  have  pre- 
ferred to  be  good  and  patient  and  gentle  if 
this  cruelty  had  not  been  thrust  upon  me. 
I  have  tried  to  bear  the  reproach  of  my 
birth,  my  lost  hopes,  my  ruined  career  ;  but 
why  must  I  endure  insult  ?  Ungrateful 
that  I  am  !  Sweet  Jesus,  wert  thou  not  buf- 
feted, spit  upon,  and  smitten  in  the  face  ? 
and  yet  thou  hast  not  complained,  while  I, 
for  one  blow,  one  insult,  have  forgotten  all, 
and  been  in  my  rage  like  a  wild  beast !  O 
Holy  Mother,  forgive  me  !  "  and  he  pressed 
almost  frantically  to  his  lips  the  little  cruci- 
fix Sister  Agatha  had  given  him,  and  prayed 
with  more  tervor  of  entreaty  than  ever  be- 
fore in  his  life. 

When  he  aro.ve  from  his  knees  he  was  calm 
and  subdued.  The  tempest  had  swept  over 
a  hot  and  arid  dj.-eri-,  and  now  succeeded  a 
rain  of  tears.  The  dry,  parched  soil  was 
moistened  and  cooled,  and  the  hungering, 
thirsting  soul  was  filled  with  peace. 

One  morning,  six  days  after  his  confine- 
ment, Guido  lay  on  the  straw  in  his  cell, 
his  eyes  half  closed  and  dull,  his  hair  matted 
and  damp,  his  lips  black  and  parched,  and 
the  fever  spot  burning  hot  and  red  on  his 
wasted  cheeks.  The  black  bread  that  had 


been  served  to  him  from  time  to  time  lay 
on  the  floor  beside  him.     He  had  not  tatted 
any  lor  several  days.     But  the  j: 
had  been  drained  with  eager  ha-u  ,  ;.:,d  m.v 
he  was  dying  with  thirst  and  it  would  not 
be  replenished  for  some  hour.-.     The  yellow 
morning  light  stole  into  the  narrow  . 
window,   and    lingered   lo\i:i'jl\    <»\< 
haggard  lace  of  the"  boy.     The  heavjfclids 
drooped  lower  and  lower,  and  he  l;.p.-td  lulu 
a  sort  of  half  delirium,  hall*  stupor,  in  which 
he  was  unconscious  of  his  pmt  ui  II.IM  : 
loneliness,  —  for  he  believed  l<i:i:;c!t': 
child  in  the  garden  of  Santo  Spirito,  and  ho 
babbled   faintly  of  fountains   ami    li 
"  How  cool  and  fre^h  is  the  sound  oi  the 
water  as  it  splashes  in  the  La^n,  and  my 
bird   sings   always  the  eame  tong";   then 
again  he  setmed  to  be  in  the  little  chapel, 
and  his  fingers  strayed  over  the  ke\  s  <  1  the 
organ,  while  he  sang  sweet  ;md  mournful 
Ave  Marias;  or  he  fancied  Liin.-ilf  in  St. 
Peter's,  where  the  painted  angels  in   the 
dome  acd  the  marble  angels  on  the  pillars 
all  became  living,  floating,  and  moving  ;  and 
all  the  figures  in  all  the  pictures  came  <  ,ut 
of  the  frames  and  knelt  at  the  altar  . 
passed  to  and  fro,  and  joined  in  the  great 
procession  of  white-robed  {iik.'l-,  \\hi!e  he, 
high  above  all,  floating  in  a  golden  haze, 
seemed  to  sing  and  ting,  ui.til  (.very  part  of 
the  vast  cathedral  was  filled  with  wondrous 
melody.     Then   arote  from   all  the   dense 
crowd  below  great  waves  oi  •,  like 

the  sound  of  many  waters  ;  and  the  : 
gathered  around  him  and  murmured  words 
of  love  and  welcome,  for  they  told  him  he 
had  come  to  join  them  and  to  be  with  them 
forever.  Suddenly  all  changed,  and  he 
seemed  to  be  sinking  slowly,  slowly  down 
from  a  great  height  of  bliss  intj  darkness 
and  despair.  With  the  fall  he  awoke,  and 
turned  his  heavy  eyes  first  on  the  empty 
jug,  then  on  the  small  barred  window, 
black,  bare  walls,  and  heavy,  iron-spiked 
door. 

"  All,"  he  moaned,  "  this  is  the  end  of  all, 
—  to  die   in  this  narrow  cell,  alone,   with 
no  one  to  speak  a  last  word  of  comfort  or 
to  moisten  my  lips!     O  for  one   di; 
of  pure   cold   water,  one  breath   oi 
morning    air  !      How    soon    to    die,    how 
young  to  finish  life  !  but  it  is  well."     The 
old    smile   of   infantine  -- 


up  his  face,  and  he  clasped  his  hands  in 
a  sort  of  ecstasy.  "  It  is  well  ;  1  shall  sing 
again." 

Suddenly  there  was  a  noise  of  many 
voices  outside;  the  door  opened,  and  Gu'ub 
saw  Cardinal  Catrucci  on  the  threshold, 
followed  by  several  prie.-ts. 

"  Father  in  heaven  !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  What  does  this  mean  '!  Why  did  you  n»t 
tell  me  the  boy  was  dying  iu  this  miserable 
hole?"  ' 


40 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

VILLA   ALDOBRANDINI. 

ONE  evening  in  June  Guido  stood  on  the 
balcony  of  the  Villa  Aldobrandini, 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  Cardinal  Catrucci. 
He  was  very  pale,  and  wasted  almost  to  a 
shadow,  but  as  he  gazed  on  the  lovely  scene 
before  him  his  face  lighted  up  with  an  ex- 
pression of  joy  and  contentment  that  gave 
promise  of  returning  health  and  happi- 
ness. 

The  setting  sun  painted  with  golden  glory 
all  the  broad  campagna,  and  brought  out 
here  and  there  spots  of  emerald  green  or 
rich  warm  brown;  touched  with  dusky 
bronze  the  old  tombs  and  ruined  aque- 
ducts, the  decaying  monuments  of  past 
glory  ;  the  mountains  were  bathed  in  violet 
light ;  the  west  was  all  aglow  with  streaks 
of  crimson  and  gold ;  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's 
stood  distinctly  outlined  against  the  gor- 
geous background  ;  the  seven-hilled  eity  was 
before  him.  She  who  had  once  been  the 
mistress  of  the  world  reclined,  aged  and 
sad,  with  her  robes  of  antiquity  folded  in 
stately  dignity  about  her. 

"  How  exquisitely  beautiful ! "  exclaimed 
Guido,  after  a  long,  intense  gaze.  "  It  is 
strange  I  have  never  before  felt  the  beauty 
of  nature  as  now ;  perhaps  it  is  because  my 
heart  is  at  rest  and  I  am  happy." 

"Poor  boy,"  said  the  Cardinal,  kindly, 
"  you  have  suffered  so  much  that  comfort 
and  peace  seem  like  paradise  to  you.  The 
evening  air  from  the  campagna  is  too  chilly 
in  your  present  feeble  condition.  Let  us  go 
into  the  garden ;  the  sound  of  the  cascade 
and  fountains  have  a  peculiar  charm  for  me 
at  this  hour  " ;  and,  supporting  Guido  tender- 
ly, they  passed  through  the  grand  hall  and 
out  into  the  court,  where  the  cascade  from 
the  hillside  leapt  down  its  marble  stairs, 
and  fell  into  the  immense  basin  with  a  cool, 
splashing  sound,  that  made  the  boy's  slug- 
gish blood  bound  and  flow  through  his  veins 
with  syns  of  returning  health. 

Terrace  rose  above  terrace,  crowned  with 
ilex,  olive,  and  acacia;  against  the  waxy 
blossoms  of  the  orange-trees  glowed  in 
strong  contrast  the  crimson  clusters  of  the 
granito.  In  the  midst  fell  the  silvery  sheet 
of  water,  white  with  foam,  —  white  as  the 
new-fallen  snow.  Above  the  opening  in 
the  trees  hung  the  crescent  moon,  with  her 
lovely  attendant  gently  following  in  her 
wake.  The  marble  statues  gleamed  against 
the  dark  background,  the  flowers,  heavy 
with  dew,  gave  forth  their  varied  and  deli- 
cate perfume,  the  birds  on  tired  win^s 
whirled  and  circled  and  sang  a  few  clear 
sweet  strains  ere  they  dropped  down  into 
their  nests  for  the  night. 

"  How  can  I  thank  you  enough  for  brin"-- 


ing  me  here  !  "  said  Guido,  sinking  down, 
pale  and  exhausted,  into  a  garden  chair. 

"  By  getting  well  and  strong  as  fast  as 
possible,"  replied  the  Cardinal.  "  During 
these  two  weeks  I  find  you  have  gained 
much,  and  you  look  a  little  less  like  a  spirit 
than  the  day  I  brought  you  here.  Poor 
boy,  I  thought  you  would  not  live  a  week ! " 
and  the  tears  glistened  in  the  speaker's 
eyes. 

"  I  had  suffered  so  much,"  replied  Guido. 
"  I  thought  I  should  die  alone  in  that  dread- 
ful place,  shut  out  from  the  air  and  light  of 
heaven.  It  seemed  about  amended  for  me, 
when  you  came,  like  an  angel  of  God,  to 
save  me." 

"  Canaylia  !  "  said  the  Cardinal,  with  an 
expression  of  the  deepest  disgust.  "  They 
tried  to  prevent  me  from  seeing  you;  they 
told  me  twenty  lies  before  I  found  out  where 
you  were.  But  never  mind  talking  about 
that  now,  my  boy ;  it  is  all  over,  an^  you 
will  not  go  back  to  San  Michele  again." 

"  O,  thanks,  thanks  ! "  said  Guido,  kissing 
the  hand  of  his  benefactor  with  an  expres- 
sion of  the  deepest  gratitude.  "  I  can  do 
nothing  there  ;  but  let  me  remain  with  you, 
1  shall  be  so  contented  and  happy." 

"  Don't  think  of  the  future  now,  the  first 
consideration  is  to  get  well,  and  then  we 
shall  do  what  is  best.  You  must  not  remain 
here  any  longer ;  the  sun  has  set,  and  there 
may  be  poison  in  this  balmy  air." 

Guido  arose,  and,  throwing  back  his  head 
with  a  sigh  of  happiness,  he  exclaimed,  "  I 
know  my  voice  will  come  back  to  me ;  my 
heart  tells  me  I  shall  sing  again.  Yes,  even 
now,  I  think  I  could  sing." 

And,  trembling  with  excitement,  he  walked 
hastily  to  the  house,  scarcely  leaning  on  the 
Cardinal.  Entering  the  grand  salon,  dim  in 
the  twilight,  he  seated  liimself  at  the  piano, 
and  drew  forth  a  few  timid,  wavering  sounds ; 
then  his  touch  became  firmer,  and  he  played 
the  prelude  to  an  Ace  Maria.  Suddenly 
his  voice  broke  forth  in  a  plaintive  strain. 
"  Viryine  santa,  Mad  re  di  Dio,"  he  sang,  but 
no  more  in  the  clear  liquid  soprano  of  other 
days ;  his  voice  had  changed  to  a  rich 
contralto.  At  first  it  was  a  little  broken  and 
uncertain,  but  as  he  continued  it  gained  in 
strength  and  purity,  rising  in  sweet  and 
noble  pathos,  filling  with  wonderful  melody 
every  corner  of  the  vaulted  apartment.  The 
Cardinal  listened  in  mute  astonishment 
until  the  last  strain  was  finished,  and  then, 
springing  forward,  he  clasped  Guido  in  his 
arms,  almost  beside  himself  with  delight. 

The  boy  withdrew  himself  from  the  em- 
brace of  his  friend,  and  raising  his  eyes  to 
heaven,  with  a  touching  expression  of 
gratitude,  he  said,  solemnly,  "  I  thank  thee, 
O  God,  because  thou  has  been  better  to  me 
than  I  dared  hope.  Now  indeed  I  am  happy." 

From  that  moment  Giudo  recovered  his 


WOVEN    OF  MANY  THREADS. 


41 


health  rapidly.  The  sorrow  that  had  so 
long  preyed  upon  him  was  removed ;  his 
old  sweetness  of  manner  returned;  his  lips 
again  wore  their  gentle  but  half  melancholy 
smile  ;  his  eyes  beamed  with  joy  and  grati- 
tude. The  hope  of  his  childhood  was  re- 
newed to  him.  The  two  years  that  had 
intervened  were  like  a  dark,  troubled  dream, 
which  he  tried  to  forget. 

He  practised  and  studied  constantly, 
seeming  contented  only  when  engaged  in 
his  labor  of  love. 

Cardinal  Catrucci  often  smiled  with  satis- 
faction to  see  how  light  and  firm  his  step 
grew,  how  clear  and  happy  his  voice  sound- 
ed, as  he  passed  through  the  gardens  and 
long  corridors  of  the  villa.  One  day  he  said 
to  Guido,  '•  I  have  decided  as  to  your  future 
studies,  and  have  arranged  for  you  to  enter 
the  Conservatory  of  Bologna,  where  you  are 
to  remain  until  you  are  twenty.  Now  your 
health  is  re-established  we  mu>t  return  to 
Rome  to  make  the  necessary  preparation 
for  your  immediate  departure." 

Guido  heard  this  news  with  delight,  for  it 
had  been  his  secret  wish  to  study  in  this 
school,  famed  throughout  Italy.  Then  close 
upon  his  joy  came  the  sad  thought  that  he 
must  leave  the  friend  who  had  been  a  father 
to  him,  and  to  whom  his  heart  was  bound 
by  the  strongest  ties  of  gratitude  and  affec- 
tion. 

AVhen  he  expressed  his  sorrow,  the  Cardi- 
nal smiled  a  little  sadly  and  sai-l,'"I  shall 
miss  you,  it  is  true ;  but,  my  dear  boy,  you 
will  find  many  things  in  your  new  life  to 
distract  your  thoughts  from  me;  an  1  (hi: 
strongest  proof  you  can  give  me  of  your 
love  is  to  make  yourself  a  career  worthy 
your  talents  and  noble  nature.  I  ask  no 
other  reward." 

When  Sister  Agatha  heard  of  the  change 
in  the  boy's  prospects,  and  when  he  sang  to 
her,  her  joy  and  gratitude  to  the  Madonna 
were  expressed  with  mingled  prayers,  smiles, 
and  tears.  lt  Oli !  "  she  s  lid,  looking  at  him 
fondly,  "how  goo  I  our  Blessed  Mother  has 
been  to  you  !  She  has  restored  your  voice, 
stronger' sweeter,  and  more  wonderful  than 
ever.°  I  hope  you  will  show  your  gratitude 
by  devoting  it  entirely  to  the  service  of  the 
Santo  PailrK.  Forget  the  world,  Guido  ;  do 
not  strive  lor  the  applause  of  men,  sing  only 
to  praise  God." 

Filomena  and  the  nun  both  busied  them- 
selves in  preparing  his  linen,  and  adding 
what  they  c  mid  to  his  slender  wardrobe. 

The  little  Mona  had  grown  into  a  mo-t 
charming  girl,  and  Guido  loved  her  very 
tenderly,  lint  always  with  the  affection  of  a 
brother.  lie  often  said  to  himself,  '•  When  I 
make  a  name,  and  become  rich,  I  will  place 
her  in  a.  position  worthy  of  her  beauty?' 

After  a  little  time  his  arrangements  were 
completed,  and  he   wen*  forth  to  his  new 
6 


life,  loaded  with  the  good  wishes  and  bless- 
ings of  his  friends. 

It  was  a  proud  and  happy  day  for  Guido, 
when,  after  two  years'  absence,  he  returned 
to  Koine  with  all  the  honors  of  the  Conser- 
vatory heaped  upon  him, 

A  fine,  manly  form,  a  bearing  proud  and 
<l':t''iii<jui\  a   i'ace   that    expressed   tin;    ; 
and  most  noble  Fcntinicnls,  manner:-  elegant 
and  refined,  a  character  calm  mid  sch-sus- 
tained,  neither  taciturn  nor  g.-:v.  but  grave 
and    gentle.     A  wonderful   talent    th. 
admired    and    appreciated    placed    him    at 
once  in  a  position  that  entirely  satisfied  the 
most  ambitious  wish  of  his  kind  patron,  the 
Cardinal. 

Sister  Agatha  and  Filomena  r< 
him  with  infinite  pride  and  ti  in!en;i  -: .     He 
as  no  longer   to   them    Guido  mio,   but   il 
maestro. 

Filomena  and  her  husband  had  pros: 
in  a  worldly  point  of  view  during  the  ab- 
sence of  Guido,  but  a  heavy  H  now  had 
fallen  upon  them.  Their  only  child,  iheir 
lovely,  gentle  Mona,  had  suddenly  disap- 
peared shortly  after  his  departuie,  and  since 
that  time  s-he  had  !'e<  n  as  one  dead  to  tin  m. 
They  believed  s-hc  had  strictly  nuuiied  and 
then  left  her  home  with  a  wealthy  ,v 
//,<;!' >r,  with  whom  s-he.  was  !i\ing 
where  in  elegance  and  comfort  ;  nut  :die  had 
abandoned,  without  a  word  of  farewell,  the 
parents  who  loved  her  to  idolatry,  and  that 
was  an  overwhelming  cal;  mity  to  the  poor 
mother,  who  had  lost  all  her  <  hildreii  save 
this  one.  Often  she  would  exclaim,  "  O,  if 
she  had  only  died  with  the  othei  s !  " 

Shortly  after  her  di?aj  ]  c;  i  M  .  c  a  large 
sum  of  money  had  come  to  them  fiom  ;:n 
unknown  donor,  which  tl  -  d  to 

be  a  penitential  offering  f'icm  their  child, 
so  they  used  it  to  furnish  an  apartment, 
the  rent  of  which  suppi.rtt  d  il.cm  in  c<  m- 
fbrt. 

'•  Xow,"  said  Fileiv.ena.  alter  re-counting 
her  sad  story  to  Guido.  \\l:o  listened  mourn- 
fully, his  heart  filled  with  sorrow  at  the  un- 
certain fate  of  the  sweet  <jirl  ulu.m  he  had 
loved  as  a  sister,  "now  ihat  we  have  no 
child,  we  hope  you  will  live  vith  us.  'I  hi-ve 
is  a  room  we  never  use,  which  will  do  nicely 
for  you,  and  it  is  y<  nrs  always.  It  i-  truest 
overlooks  the  court,  but  the  sun  shim  s  in 
pleasantly  all  day,  and  the  flowers  on  the 
balcony  make  a  pretty  bit  of  color  n<  m  the 
window,  and  you  can  hear  the  fountain  al- 
ways with  its  "gentle  murmur,  which  i 
soothing  when  one  is  tired." 

Guido  thanked  the.  kind-hearted  woman 
for  her  generous  oiler,  which  1 
without  hesitation,  and  when  he  was  finally 
settled  under  her  care  l-'iloincna  seemed  al- 
most to  forget  her  trouble,  for  certainly  she 
was  ha;, pier.  After  holing  ;:t  Guido.  she 
would  say,  with  a  thoughtful  smile,  '•  Perhaps 


42 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS 


now  I  shall  hear  from  my  child,  for  you  have 
always  Drought  me  'good  luck." 

Sister  Agatha  came  to  visit  them  as  often 
as  her  duties  permitted  her.  These  were 
happy  hours  for  the  poor  nun ;  her  heart 
was  at  rest;  the  child  she  had  so  loved  and 
cared  for  was  settled  in  life,  poor,  it  was 
true,  but  with  an  honorable  and  respectable 
career  before  him. 

Shortly  after  his  return,  the  dream  of 
Guide's  childhood  was  realized,  —  he  became 
one  of  the  Pope's  singers.  His  voice  during 
his  studies  had  developed  and  strengthened, 
and  he  now  sang  a  pure  rich  tenor,  which 
lacked  nothing  of  the  expression  and  pathos 
of  the  soprano  with  which  he  had  fascinated 
the  public  in  his  childhood. 

It  was  Easter  Sunday  when  Guido  first 
sang  in  the  papal  choir,  and  all  the  angels 
in  heaven  seemed  to  sing  with  him  as  he 
walked  before  the  Pope  in  the  imposing 
procession.  It  was  a  day  of  rejoicing  to  the 
world,  the  day  of  Christ 's  resurrection  and 
triumph,  and  he  joined  with  his  whole  soul 
in  the  exulting  song  of  Christus  resurgens. 
Among  the  crowd  of  spectators  was  Guide's 
old  enemy,  the  maestro  of  San  Michele,  who 
looked  at  him  with  the  same  feelings  of  envy 
and  jealousy. 

And  Sister  Agatha  and  Filomena  were 
there.  Now,  indeed,  their  proudest  desires 
were  realized.  How  handsome  and  noble 
he  looked  in  his  purple  silk  robes  and  lace 
surplice  !  and  Cardinal  Catrucci  glanced  at 
him  more  than  once,  well  satisfied  with  the 
result  of  his  patronage. 

From  that  time  Guide's  position  was  as 
sured.  Through  the  influence  of  the  Cardinal, 
and  by  the  charm  of  his  talent  ani  gentle 
manners,  he  was  received  into  the  best 
Italian  and  foreign  society.  Although  he 
had  reached  what  then  seemed  to  him  the 
greatest  height  to  which  he  could  attain,  yet 
he  was  not  entirely  happy.  There  was  a 
melancholy,  proud  reserve  in  his  nature  that 
kept  him  from  intimate  association  with 
those  around  him,  and  he  lived  almost  the 
same  life  of  seclusion  as  in  the  days  of  his 
scholarship  at  San  Michele.  The  uncer- 
tainty connected  with  his  birth  served  in  a 
manner  to  separate  him  from  the  world  ; 
and  although  he  was  accepted  and  flattered 
for  his  talent,  he  well  knew  there  was  a 
barrier  between  him  and  society  which 
could  not  be  levelled.  Then  the  rules  of  the 
papal  choir  exacted  from  the  members,  out- 
wardly, the  same  forms  and  restrictions  that 
governed  the  lives  of  the  clergy ;  they  were 
under  vows  of  celibacy  while  in  the  service 
of  the  Pope,  and  wore  the  dress  of  a  priest. 
This  had  never  been  at  all  irksome  to  Guido, 
on  account  of  his  quiet,  retired  life,  and  he 
had  never  thought  of  marriage  because  he 
had  never  loved.  He  was  a  student,  no 
longer  an  experimenter;  he  pursued  his 


beloved  profession  with  enthusiasm  and  de- 
votion, desiring  to  gain  distinction,  not  only 
as  a  singer,  but  also  as  a  composer. 

One  day,  five  years  after  he  had  entered 
the  service  of  the  Pope,  Guido  sat  alone  in 
the  same  little  room  that  Filomena  had 
ottered  him  after  his  ictum  from  Bologna. 
Outwardly,  nothing  had  changed  around 
him.  The  same  flowers  bloomed  on  the 
balcony,  the  same  fountain  sparkled  and 
splashed  in  the  court  below,  and  the  same 
sun  threw  its  slanting  rays  over  the  picture 
of  the  Madonna  that  hung  above  his  piano. 
But,  inwardly, -that  great  change  had  come 
to  him  that  comes  to  us  but  once  in  a  life. 
He  sat  before  his  piano,  but  his  fingeis  only 
strayed  in  dreamy  idleness  over  the  minor 
notes,  his  eyes,  melancholy  but  infinitely 
sweet,  were  fixed  on  vacancy,  and  a  tender 
smile  played  around  his  mouth. 

That  day  a  vision  had  crossed  his  path,  a 
face  of  delicate  beauty  haunted  him,  and  a 
gentle  voice  filled  with  a  peculiar  melody 
every  chamber  of  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

CAPELLA   DEL   COEO. 

T  was  Sunday,  and  crowds  were  pouring 
into  St.  Peter's,  to  listen  to  the  vespers 
that  the  choir  were  singing  in  the  Capella 
del  Coro.  Being  nearly  Ave  Maria,  the  vast 
building  was  in  half-gloom.  The  last  rays 
of  sunlight  illumined  with  indescribable 
radiance  the  emblem  of  the  Holy  Spirit  above 
the  tribune.  The  great  dome,  side  chap- 
els, and  vaulted  nave,  peopled  with  marble 
and  pictured  figures,  seemed  larger  and 
more  mysterious  because  of  the  shadowy 
and  indistinct  outlines.  The  massive  bal- 
daccldno  of  bronze  covering  the  high  altar 
appeared  a  temple  in  itself.  The  light  from 
the  hundred  silver  lamps  around  the  tomb 
of  St-  Peter  threw  long  slanting  rays  across 
the  polished  marble  fioor.  Here  and  there 
kneeling,  motionless  figures  gave  an  aspect 
of  quiet  solemnity  to  the  whole  scene.  Al- 
though a  crowd  surrounded  the  dcor  of  the 
Capella  del  Coro  in  the  left  aisle,  the  vast 
nave  was  almost  empty,  and  the  strains  of 
the  choir  singing  there  could  scarcely  be 
heard  by  those  praying  in  the  tribune. 

It  was  one  of  those  moments  when  the 
soul  was  best  fitted  to  feel  and  understand 
the  sublimity  of  the  place  ;  when  one  could 
not  contemplate  long  this  achievement  of 
the  immortal  genius  of  Michael  Angelo  and 
Raphael  without  feeling  that  the  God  who 
reigns  in  this  immensity,  and  who  alone  can 
fill  it*is  not  only  the  God  of  men,  but  the 
God  of  gods. 

Such    were    the,  thoughts    that    passed 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


through  the  mind  of  Constance  as  she  stood  ! 
in  the  tribune,  her   eyes    wandering  from 
pillar  to   pillar  down  the  shadowy  length 
of  the  nave,  and  in  some  such  words  did  she  i 
express  her  feelings  to  Madame  Landel,  who 
stood  near  her  looking  at  the  beautiful  mau- 
soleum of  Paul  III.,  with  its  exquisite  figures  ; 
of  Prudence  and  Justice,   which  the  false  \ 
delicacy  of  modsrn  taste  has  covered  with 
a  drapery  of  painted  lead.     Mrs.  Tremaine 
and  Mr.  Carnegie  paced  slowly  back   and  j 
forth,  discussing  the  merits  of  this  world-re-  ; 
nowned  temple  of  the  Most  High.     It  was  ' 
th.3  first  visit  of  Constance  and  Helen,  and 
nothing  could  exceed  their  delight,  astonish- 
ment, and  admiration. 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  have  seen  St.  Peter's 
for  ths  first  time  at  this  hour,"  said  Mr. 
CarnQvie;  "no  other  impression  can  be  so 
profound  and  lasting.  The  illusion  of  the 
half-light  blends  and  softens  all  the  project- 
ing lines  that  somewhat  disturb  the  harmony 
of  the  whole,  making  it  appear  more  im- 
mense, more  solemn,  and  more  mysterious 
than  under  the  broad  light  of  day.  How 
effective'  are  the  golden  beams  streaming 
through  the  stained  window  of  the  tribune 
contrasted  with  the  silver  rays  of  the  lamps 
around  the  altar,  Avhile  all  the  vast  dome 
and  vaulted  nave  are  in  shadow !  and  see,  far 
down  at  the  door  the  people  passing  in  and 
out  look  like  tiny  moving  shadows,  and  one 
can  judge  something  of  the  size  by  the  far- 
off  sound  of  the  choir,  which  is  only  half 
the  length  of  the  church  from  us." 

"  Let  us  go  nearer,"  said  Constance.  "  I 
prefer  to  listen  to  sacred  music  at  this  hour, 
and  in  this  place  it  has  a  double  charm ;  a 
tender  melancholy  seems  to  float  in  the  very 
air,  as  though  the  spirits  of  the  past  brushed 
with  their  shadovvy  wings  the  moving  forms 
of  the  present." 

And  so,  talking  softly  as  they  went,  they 
walked  toward  the  chaps!  where  the  choir 
were  singing  vespers.  Every  seat  was  filled, 
and  around  the  door  was  a  dense  crowd, 
quiet,  orderly,  but  evidently  expectant. 
With  some  little  effort  they  pushed  their 
way  into  the  chapel,  and  stood  leaning 
against  some  massive  pillars  opposite  the 
singers. 

Constance,  who  had  never  bsforcAvitnessed 
the  gorgeous  ceremonies  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  watched  with  curioua  attention  the 
priests  in  their  white  and  gojflen  robes, 
passing  slowly  before  the  canons  in  their 
stalls,  swinging  the  censers  and  chanting 
inharmoniously,  while  the  perfumed  smoke 
enveloped  them  all  in  a  cloud  that  gradually 
arose,  floated,  and  dispersed  like  a  silvery 
mist  into  the  vaulted  pictured  roof.  She 
noted  all  this  with  a  strange  interest,  scarcely 
heeding  the  choir,  until  there  burst  Upon 
her  ear  a  strain  of  melody,  —  a  single  voice 
so  rich  and  clear,  so  filled  with  tender 


harmony,  that  the  memory  of  it  never  left 
her  in  all  her  after  life.  She  raised  her 
eyes,  and  before  her  in  the  low  orchestra, 
outlined  against  the  golden  pipes  of  the 
organ,  like  a  saint  of  Cimabue,  stood  a 
young  man  in  the  classic  black  robes  of  a 
Roman  priest.  His  arms  were  folded  and 
his  head  slightly  thrown  back,  while  over 
his  pale,  earnest  face  beamed  an  expres- 
sion of  deep  enthusiasm  that,  lighted  up  a 
pair  of  sad  dark  eyes  and  lingered  around 
a  mouth  of  peculiar  sweetness.  His  form 
was  a  little  above  the  medium  li> 
slight  and  graceful;  his  neck  ro.-e  fr.im  th .; 
narrow  white  band  like  a  marble  column ; 
the  head  was  small,  the  brow  broad  and 
high,  from  which  the  waving  brown  hair 
was  thrown  back  in  careless  grace,  falling 
to  the  shoulders  and  over  the  broad  collar 
of  his  black  mantle,  as  he  stood  before  them. 
He  appeared  an  inspiratiftn  of  youth  and 
genius,  an  almost  divine  impersonation  of 
manhood.  His  face  was  stamped  with  the 
glowing  spirituality  of  Raphael  as  well  as  the 
more  tender  melancholy  of  his  worshipper. 
Parmigiano.  He  teemed  unmindful  of  ail 
around  him  as  he  poured  forth  strains  the 
power  and  pathos  of  which  touched  and 
thrilled  every  heart,  bearing  the  soul  with 
the  mournful  pleading  melody  almost  into 
the  presence  of  the  Holy  Mother  whose 
praises  he  sang.  Constance,  with  her  up- 
lifted face  and  earnest  eyes,  seemed  drinking 
in  every  tone  of  the  wonderful  voice.  When 
he  had  finished  his  solo,  without  as  much  as 
glancing  at  the  crowd  below  him  he  turned 
and  left  the  orchestra. 

"  O,  what  an  exquisite  voice  !  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Tremaine.  "  I  think  I  never  heard 
any  one  sing  with  such  expression." 

"  Do  you  know  his  name,  Mr.  Carnegie  ?  " 
inquired  Constance. 

"  I  do  not  remember,  although  I  heard  it 
often  last  winter.  He  is  the  Pope's  most 
celebrated  singer." 

Quietly  the  crowd  dispersed,  and  spread 
over  the  church,  some  kneeling  at  the  dif- 
ferent altars,  some  pacing  slowly  back  and 
forth,  while  others  regarded  the  pictures, 
tombs,  and  statues. 

Constance  lingered  near  the  monument 
of  the  unhappy  Pretender,  James  the  last 
of  the  Stuart  kings,  thmking  sadly  of  the 
poor  exile  dying  far  from  his  own  land,  of 
his  vain  struggles,  his  lost  and  ruined  liojx's. 
all  ending  in  this  record  of  the  uncertainty 
of  human  greatness. 

"He  rests  beneath  the  shadow  of  a  world- 
renowned  temple,"  said  Mr.  Carne-ie;  '•  and 
his  monument  is  the  work  of  Canova.  I 
think  it  nri<iht  reconcile  one  to  dying  in 
exile,  if  his  last  resting-] >l;'<>e  could  !>«•  im- 
mortalized by  the  productions  o!  ihc.  most 
Mi'iilime  genius  of  every  a-e.  Whichever  way 
we  look  we  see  the  divine  imprint  of  Michael 


44 


WOVEN   OF   MANY   THREADS. 


Angelo,  Raphael,  Canova,  Thorwaldsen,  and  threateningly  at  her,  while  his  eyes  beamed 
a  host  of  other  luminaries  that  have  beamed  |  with  pleasure  at  the  memory  of  a  happy 
from  time  to  time  upon  the  world  with  more  |  day. 

or  less  radiance."  And  so  the  carriage  rolled  on  swiftly  to- 

"  I  have  formed  many  vague  fancies  re-  j  ward  the  Pincio,  by  the  grim  old  castle  of  St. 
specting  this  edifice  and  its  surroundings,"  Angelo,  crowned  with  the  glorious  archangel 
remarked  Constance,  as  they  walked  down  of  Wenschefeld,  over  the  noble  bridge  built 
the  gradual  de? cent  of  broad  steps  that  lead  by  Hadrian,  and  disfigured  by  the  exagger- 
to  the  piazza ;  "  but  nothing,  no  matter  how  '••  ated  statues  of  the  school  of  Bernini,  and 
grand  and  stately,  has  ever  approached  the  j  through  the  narrow,  irregular  streets,  grow- 
reality.  Look  back,  and  contrast  the  height  j  ing  gray  and  gloomy  in  the  gathering  twi- 
of  the  people  with  the  entrance.  Why,  j  light. 


they  are  mere  pigmies  in  comparison  !  And 
how  imposing  is  this  great  square,  with  the 
antique  obelisk  in  the  centre,  that  once 
threw  its  long  shadow  over  some  temple  of 


Suddenly  Mrs.  Tremaine  exclaimed,  after 
what  seemed  a  long  silence  for  her,  "  I  am 
always  thinking  of  the  wonderful  voice  and 
wonderful  face  of  that  wonderful  sins;er. 


Heliopolis,  and  the  two  massive  but  simple  !  Have  you  ever  seen  such  sad  eyes  f  and  the 
fountains'  on  each  side,  throwing  up  their  j  enthusiastic  expression  of  his  face  while  he 
silvery  spray  to  the  top  of  the  stately  col-  '•  sang  made  me  think  of  Apollo  and  all  sorts 
onnade  that  encloses  all  in  a  vast  semicircle  ! !  of  musical  divinities." 

The  statues  seem  like  a  solemn  procession  The  sweet  lips  of  Constance  did  not  echo 
of  figures  that  ever  march  in  single  file  upon  j  the  words  of  Mrs.  Tremaine,  but  her  heart 
the  summit.  How  clearly  every  outline  isde-  |  did,  for  she  had  already  wondered  why  she 
fined  against  the  sky,  as  quietly  and  calmly  j  thought  so  much  of  this  singer. 


the  gray  twilight  settles  over  all !  " 


"  There    is   something    touching  in   the 


It  is  very  •  grand  and  magnificent,  and  j  pathos  cf  his   voice ;  it  seems  filled  with 
all    that,"    said    Mis.    Tremaine,   with    an    tears,"  was  the  only  remark  she  hazarded, 
affected   shiver;    "but  it  strikes  me  with 
a  cold  melancholy,   that  makes   me  wish 
for  the  carriage  and  a  turn  on  the  Pincio 
before  it  is  quite   dark.      1   desire   to   see 
something  of  the  beauty   and    fashion   of 


Rome  as  well  as  its  antiquity." 


"  I  was  particularly  struck  by  his  noble 
air  and  remarkable  face,"  said  Madame 
Landel.  "I  am  sure,  let  him  be  who  he 
may,  he  has  a  history." 

"  O,  how  brilliant,  how  gay,  how  beauti- 
ful !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tremaine,  as  the  car- 


"  You  will  see  enough  of  the  Pincio,  my  j  riage  passed  through  the  gates,  and  up  the 


dear,  before  the  winter  is  over,"  replied 
Madame  Landel,  "  as  every  day's  drive  ter- 
minates there.  It  is  very  brilliant  and  gay, 
I  believe ;  but  I  must  say  I  prefer  places 
that  the  crowd  of  fashionables  do  not  care 
to  visit." 

"  And  I  like  the  quieter  drives  also,"  said 
Constance ;  "  but  if  Helen  is  so  amiable  as  to 
allow  herself  to  be  dragged  about  all  day 
to  see  antiquities,  which  she  affects  not  to 
like,  we  must  indulge  her  with  a  little  pleas- 
ure at  the  end." 

"  We  almost  forget  it  is  Sunday,  my  dear," 
gently  remonstrated  Madame  Landel.  "  It 
seems  hardly  right  to  drive  on  the  Pincio." 


ascent  to  the  Pincio. 

Far  above  them  rose  a  succession  of  mar- 
ble terraces,  ornamented  with  statues,  foun- 
tains, flowers,  and  odorous  f-hrubs ;  the  feath- 
ery acacia  drooped  in  verdant  luxuriance ; 
the  magnolia  unfolded  its  creamy  blossoms, 
and  made  the  faint  air  almost  sick  with 
their  perfume ;  the  oleander  flung  down 
showers  of  crimson  leaves  mixed  with  the 
waxen  petals  of  the  orange  ;  the  gor- 
geous cactus  flamed  fire  against  the  dark 
ilex,  while  the  oriental  palm,  the  stately 
stone  pine,  and  the  solemn  cypress,  united 
to  form  beauty,  greenness,  and  shade.  The 
massive  flight  of  marble  steps ;  the  -water 


"  O,  I  can  assure  you  every  one  does  it.  •  falling  over  moss-covered  rocks  into  the 
It  is  quite  the  thing,  and  Mrs.  Tremaine  time-stained,  moss-covered  basins  ;  the 
wishes  it  so  much,"  interposed  Mr.  Car-  ™""""fi'1  «»* «««,•„,  ™QiVa  v>nWWi>d  -u-uVi 


negie. 

"  I  think  we  will  for  this  once,"  said  Con- 
stance, with  a  little  smile,  "but  I  am  sure 
none*  of  us  will  wish  to  make  a  habit  of  do- 
ing it,  if  we  think  it  is  not  right." 

"  O,  how  ridiculous  !  "  laughed  Mrs.  Tre- 
maine. "  I  hope  none  of  us  will  spoil  the 
day's  pleasure  by  an  affectation  of  piety.  I 
have  lived  so  long  in  Paris  I  never  think 
of  such  things.  Why,  Mr.  Carnegie,  we  went 
to  the  race  at  Longchamps  on  Sunday  !  " 

"  O  you  foolish  child,  to  expose  our  wick- 


winding  walks  bordered  with 
hedges  of  roses  and  ivy  intwincd ;  the 
t-moothed  clipped  turf  the  beds  of  tropical 
flowers,  flaunting  in  robes  of  every  hue  ;  the 
soft  balmy  air ;  the  golden  glow  of  the  set- 
ting sun  ;  'the  merry  chatter  of  children  ;  the 
lip-lit  laughter  of  the  gay  thron?,  mingled 
with  the  clear  strains  of  the  band,  —  all 
formed  a  ecene  of  enchanting  beauty  easier 
to  imagine  than  to  describe. 

"I  thought,"  said  Mr?.  Tremaine,  PS  they 
stood  on  the  highest  terrace,  and  looked  far 
below  them  into  the  Piazza  del  Popolo,  with 


edness !  "  and  Mr.  Carnegie  shook  his  finger  its  twin  churches,  obelisk,  and  marvellous 


WOVEN  OF  MANY  THREADS. 


fountain,  —  "I  thought  there  could  be  no 
other  park  or  garden  so  beautiful  as  Hyde 
Park  or  the  Bois ;  but  I  believe  this  is  more 
charming  than  either.  I  am  sure  it  is  more 
interesting  because  we  have  the  city  of  the 
world  at  our  feet ;  and  is  it  not  strange  how 
near  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's  appears  to  us 
now  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Constance,  "  I  was  just 
thinking  of  it,  and  speculating  on  the 
singularity  of  atmospheric  effects.  As  the 
sun  sinks,  and  darkness  surrounds  it,  it 
seems  larger  and  higher ;  and  how  gray  and 
sad  and  sombre  the  plain  is  below  us ! 
One  might  say  all  the  life  and  light  had 
centred  here,  and  the  great  city  was  de- 
serted, pulseless,  and  still." 

'.'  Look  yonder  on  Monte  Mario,"  ex- 
claimed Mr.  Carnegie.  "  Turner's  pine 
and  all  the  grim  cypresses  are  outlined 
against  a  background  of  gold ;  like  the  pic- 
tures of  Giotto,  the  middle  distance  is  black 
with  shadows,  and  the  foreground  is  gray 
and  dull  where  the  Tiber  floats  across  it. 
How  peculiar  the  effect  is  with  all  the  light 
behind ! " 

"  itow  Claude  Lorraine  would  have  ex- 
ulted in  such  a  scene  !  "  said  Constance, 
who  stood,  with  all  her  soul  in  her  eyes, 
gazing  into  the  distance,  tracing  a  thousand 
lovely  forms  and  tints  in  this  divine  pic- 
ture, touched  with  the  glory  of  the  great 
Master. 

"  Do  tell  us  who  a  few  of  these  people 
are,  Mr.  Carnegie,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Tre- 
maine.  "  You  have  been  in  Rome  so  many 
seasons  you  ought  to  know  every  one  of 
any  importance.  Who  are  these  elegant 
girls  in  such  magnificent  toilets,  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  the  old  gentleman  ?  and  who  is 
that  Adonis  in  immaculate  gloves  who 
walks  by  the  side  of  the  prettiest,  whis- 
pering sweet  nothings  in  her  not  unwilling 
ear?  " 

"  The  old  gentleman  is  an  American 
banker,  immensely  rich,  and  the  girls  are 
his  daughters,  who  are  to  be  sold  to  some 
young  scion  of  nobility.  The  young  gentle- 
man is  the  Prince  Conti,  the  last  of  one  of 
the  oldest  and  most  impoverished  Roman 
families  ;  one  of  his  palaces  was  sold  under 
the  hammer  of  the  auctioneer  a  year  ago, 
and  it  is  said  his  last  was  recently  mort- 
gaged. It  seems  that  last  season  Conti  was 
fairly  caught  by  this  lovely  miss,  but  the 
papa  would  not  pay  enough  for  the  title, 
and  so  the  Prince  holds  off,  hoping  he  will 
come  to  better  terms  later. 

The  party  they  were  speaking  of  turned 
at  that  moment  and  walked  toward  them, 
and  as  they  met  all  noticed  the  marked 
glance  of  admiration  with  which  the  Prince 
favored  Mrs.  Tremaine.  She  blushed 
slightly,  and  said  as  they  passed,  "  He  is 
handsome,  is  he  not  ?  and  indeed  he  has 


the  air  of  a  prince.  I  should  have  known 
he  belonged  to  the  old  Roman  nobility  if 
you  had  not  told  me." 

"  I  cannot  perceive  that  he  is  different 
from  the  other  young  Italians  louu'jmir 
about  here,"  remarked  Mr.  Carne-ne,  un- 
easily;  at  which  Mrs.  Tremaine  laughed 
maliciously,  with  a  sly  glance  at  Constance. 

'•  Who  are  those  strange-looking  people 
in  that  magnificent  carriage,  witli  servants 
in  such  striking  livery  ?  "  inquired  Madame 
Landel. 

"  O,  that  is  a  parvenu  Roman  prince  with 
his  family  ;  he  is  as  rich  as  Rothschild,  and 
has  bought  his  title  with  his  money.  The 
wife  by  iris  side  is  half  mad,  and  those  two 
inane,  expressionless  girls  on  the  front  seat 
are  nearly  idiotic.  He  desires  to  find  hus- 
bands for  them  among  the  real  nobility  ;  as 
he  has  no  sons,  he  will  dower  them  well. 
Is  it  not  a  strange  menage  1 " 

"  What  frights ! ''  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tre- 
maine, putting  her  handkerchief  to  her 
mouth  to  conceal  her  laughter,  as  tliree 
slim  and  not  youthful  girls,  in  yellow  gray, 
looking  as  much  alike  and  as  stiff  as  three 
wax  candles,'  passed  by  in  the  rear  of  their 
dragon,  an  old  lady  with  spectacles,  little 
white  tufts  of  hair  sticking  on  each  side  of 
her  head,  and  a  long,  sharp  nose  that  gave 
indication  of  frequent  and  earnest  libations 
to  the  god  Bacchus.  She  marched  ahead 
like  a  wary  general,  keeping  a  good  look- 
out for  the  enemy,  in  the  shape  of  dark- 
eyed,  smooth-tongued  young  Italians. 

"  By  George !  the  '  Three  Graces '  again," 
said  Mr.  Carnegie,  as  they  sailed  out  of 
sight.  "  For  six  winters  these  fair  creatures 
have  been  in  Rome.  They  are  victims  to 
respectability,  English,  of  respectable  family 
and  respectable  fortune  ;  they  go  about  with 
respectability  written  on  their  prim  i 
and  their  chief  mission  is  to  discover  a 
want  of  respectability  in  their  fellow-crea- 
tures. The  dragon  who  guarded  the  golden 
fleece  of  >Etes  never  was  more  watchful 
than  this  old  horror,  who  always  forms  the 
vanguard,  well  prepared  to  do  battle  with 
any  number  of  fortune-hunters." 

"  I  think  she  gives  herself  unnecessary 
trouble;  their  faces  will  repel  what  their 
fortunes  attract,"  remarked  Constance,  with 
a  quiet  smile. 

"  Come,  my  dears,"  interrupted  Madame 
Landel,  "  it  is  getting  late ;  most  of  the 
carriages  have  gone  down,  and  we  must 
follow.  Mr.  Carnegie  will  defer  his  amus- 
ingbiographies  until  another  day." 

Every  eye  followed  the  two  beautiful 
crirls  as  they  walked  slowly  back  to  the 
carriage,  —  both  so  lovely,  yet  so  diverse  in 
their  beauty.  Constance,  in  deep  mounting 
with  pale  sweet  face  and  dark  hair,  was  very 
interesting;  but  Mrs.  Tremaine,  fair  and 
tall,  with  her  white  feathers  drooping  over 


46 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


her  luxuriant  golden  hair,  vras  certainly  the 
more  attractive.  They  differed  as  do  the 
soft  twilight  and  the  rosy  dawn. 

As  they  rode  slowly  down  the  descent  in 
the  long  train  of  carriages,  Constance  con- 
trasted the  warm  balmy  air  and  the  luxu- 
riant vegetation  with  the  wild  October 
winds  that  were  sweeping  down  showers  of 
dead  leaves  over  her  beloved  graves  at 
Helmsford.  For  a  moment  tears  dimmed 
her  eyes,  but  suddenly  the  memory  of  a 
thrilling  voice  and  a  pale,  inspired  face 
started  up  before  her  and  drove  the  other 
thought  from  her  heart. 

Guido  Bernardo,  his  services  finished  at 
St.  Feter's,  walked  slowly  down  the  grand 
piazza,  under  the  colonnade,  to  the  Porta  St. 
Angelo,  and  out '  into  the  country  to  the 
quiet,  dreamy  chores  of  the  Tiber.  There, 
with  his  arms  folded  and  his  head  bent,  lost 
in  profound  contemplation  over  a  combina- 
tion of  notes  that  should  pioduce  an  ex- 
quisite Ave  Maria  if  he  could  only  find  the 
words,  he  followed  almost  mechanically  the 
winding  of  the  river.  It  was  his  favorite 
walk  after  his  Sunday  duties  in  the  chapel ; 
but  to-day  he  hurried  that  he  might  get 
home  quicker  to  write  down  the  vague 
sounds  that  were  floating  through  his  brain. 
He  did  not  pause,  as  usual,  to  glance  at  the 
picturesque  buildings  on  the  other  shore, 
their  windows  all  aflame  with  the  glow  of 
sunset ;  neither  did  he  notice  the  different 
tints  and  harmony  in  the  coloring  around 
him,  or  his  favorite  birds  that  wheeled  and 
circled  above  his  head  with  a  fearlessness 
that  showed  their  instinct  taught  them  his 
nature  was  loving  and  gentle.  He  went  on, 
crossing  the  Ponte  Molle  without  thinking 
of  the  different  scenes  of  conflicts  that  had 
been  enacted  there ;  of  one  calm,  lovely 
evening  when  the  ghastly  body  of  Maxen- 
tius  was  hurled  from  its  parapet,  alter  his 
defeat  by  Constantino ;  nor  of  the  struggle 
of  the  brave  insurgents  against  the  French 
invaders  in  1849.  No,  he  thought  of  none 
of  these  things,  for  his  hymn  to  the  Virgin 
was  floating  through  his  brain  in  sweet, 
sad,  minor  notes.  He  entered  the  Porta 
del  Popolo  just  as  the  carriages  were  rolling 
out  of  the  Pincian  gate  ;  a  face  that  seemed 
to  him  of  divine  beauty,  ay,  as  lovely  as 
the  Blessed  Virgin,  flitted  by  him  and 
passed  out  of  sisht.  Guido  went  home,  and  ! 
that  face  mingled  with  the  music  that  j 
floated  around  him,  while  he  wrote  nnd 
dreamed  far  into  the  night.  And  Mrs. 
Tremaine  laughed  lightly  and  chatted 
freely  of  her  admiration  for  the  Adonis,  as 
she  termed  the  Piince  Conti.  And  Con- 
stance more  than  once  started  to  find  her- 
self thinking  of  the  voice  that  had  sung 
Ave  Maria;  and  so  more  than  one  charac- 
ter in  this  chapter  had  met  her  fate 
•without  knowing  it. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

IL    MAESTRO. 

A  WEEK  after  their  arrival  in  Rome, 
Madame  Landel,  Constance,  and  Mrs. 
Tremaine  were  settled  for  the  winter  in  a 
magnificent  old  palace  near  the  Pincio,  and 
Mr.  Carnegie  had  found  a  comfortable  bach- 
elor apartment  in  the  neighborhood.  They 
had  searched  everywhere,  and  had  turned 
away  disgusted  more  than  once  at  the  dark, 
dirty,  ill-furnished  rooms  that  were  shown 
them,  when  one  day  they  were  passing  this 
palazzo,  whose  gray  time-worn  exterior  pre- 
sented very  little  attraction  until  they 
caught  sight  of  a  large  sunny  court,  nicely 
paved  and  ornamented  with  flowers  and 
shrubs  in  stone  pots,  while  in  the  centre  a 
curious  old  fountain  threw  up  streams  of 
clear  cool  water,  that  fell  again  into  the 
basin  with  a  gentle  murmur,  Constance 
glanced  over  the  door  and  saw  the  usual 
sign :  "  Appartamento  mobiliato  al  terzo 
piano" 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  let  us  go  up  and  in- 
spect this  place ;  it  certainly  looks  more 
inviting  than  anything  we  have  seen." 

They  passed  up  a  flight  of  broad  marble 
stairs,  not  ever-clean,  ornamented  with 
heavy  balustrades  of  elaborately  carved 
stone,  and  rang  at  a  door  barred  and  spiked 
with  iron,  like  the  entrance  to  a  prison. 
An  honest-locking,  well-dressed  woman,  with 
a  red  mark  en  her  cheek,  desired  them  to 
enter. 

They  passed  through  a  rather  dreary, 
cold,  and  stately  ante-room,  paved  with 
square  blocks  of  marble  in  black  and  white. 
Around  the  walls  were  arranged  with  stiff 
precision  antique  carved  chairs,  dark  and 
grim  with  the  stains  of  time.  In  each  cor- 
ner stood  a  piaster  cast  from  seme  ancient 
well-known  statue,  and  en  the  wails  hung 
several  black,  dingy  copies  from  the  old 
masters.  The  woman  opened  an  inner 
door,  and,  throwing  aside  sorre  heavy  crim- 
son curtains,  with  evident  pride  and  self- 
satisfaction  displayed  the  interior  of  a  charm- 
ing salon,  large  enough  to  make  four  ordi- 
nary English  drawing-rooms.  From  lofty 
windows,  through  curtains  of  crimson  and 
lace,  streamed  in  the  warm  noonday  sun, 
over  stands  of  fragrant  flowers,  liphting  up 
the  colors  in  the  rich  carpet.  The  walls 
were  hung  with  crimson  and  gold,  and  on 
the  painted  ceiling  floated  r.ymphs,  cherubs, 
and  cupids,  sporting  with  garlands  of  lilies 
and  roses.  Heavy,  comfortable  furniture, 
large  inviting  sofas,  and  cosey  arm-chairs, 
were  arranged  with  much  taste  around  the 
ivemi.  Two  hcavy-cnvvt  (1  coiKoYs,  ^ith  an- 
tique marble  tops  covered  with  lric-u-brac 
of  all  sorts,  a  number  of  rather  good  pic- 
tures, alabaster  statuettes  on  pretty  pedes- 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


47 


tals,  and  some  heavy  silver  candelabra,  gave  j 
the  room  an  elegant  as  well  as  a  cheerful  i 
appearance. 

"  Oh  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.    Tremaine,  at  the 
first  glance,  "this  will  suit  us  exactly.  Is  it  { 
not  beautiful  ?  " 

"  Wait  a  moment,  my  dear,  before  we  de- 
cide,"iuterruptcd  the  more  practical  Madame 
Landel ;  "  we  must  first  know  if  there  are 
sleeping-rooms,  dining-rooms,  and  other  con- 
venience?." 

"  Sea  what  a  charming  view ! "  said  Con- 
stance, as  she  looked  out  on  the  sunny 
crest  of  the  Pincio.  "  It'  there  are  chambers 
enough,  nothing  could  be  more  delightful. 
Really  this  xa'tjn  is  quite  regal." 

"  It  is  the  size  and  height  and  the  painted 
ceiling  that  sive  it  the  air  magnificent,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Carnegie,  who  was  attentively 
examining  a  piece  of  peculiar  old  china.  "  I 
believe  this  is  a  vase  of  senuine  Capo  di 
Monti.  Is  it  not  beautiful,  Mrs.  Tremaine  ?  " 

"No,  really  I  cannot  say  I  think  it  is," 
replied  Mrs.  Tremaine,  laughing.  "  These 
chubby  red  cherubs  blowing  soap-bubbles, 
and  the  dirty  yellow  background,  are  not 
particularly  pleasing." 

Mr.  Carnegie  said  nothing,  but  pot  it  down 
with  a  sigh  at  her  bad  taste,  and  went  on 
inspecting  what  he  fondly  believed  to  be  a 
collection  of  Buen  Retiro,  Vienna,  Dresden, 
and  I  know  not  what  else,  while  the  ladies 
examined  bedroom?,  which  they  found  to  be 
the  exact  number  wanted ;  looked  over  linen, 
china,  and  silver ;  bargained  for  service,  rent, 
fuel,  food,  and  all  the  other  necessaries  of 
life,  which  were  finally  agreed  upon  satis- 
factorily, and  they  turned  to  leave,  de- 
lighted with  such  an  agreeable  acquisition. 

As  they  were  going  out,  Mr.  Carnegie 
asked  the  waixian  how  she  had  come  in  pos- 
se; sion  of  all  these  curious  old  things. 

"  O  Sir] nor  mlo"  she  said,  with  a  sigh, 
•"  it  is  a  long  story  to  tell,  how  we  got  the 
money,  my  Benedetto  and  me.  But  when 
we  wanted  to  take  the  apartment  we  found 
it  just  as  it  is  now.  An  old  contessa  had 
died,  and  left  nothing  but  this  furniture. 
Poveru  contcssv,  she  was  entirely  ruined  by 
her  nephew,  who  was  a  cattivo  ragazzo. 
After  his  aunt  died  ha  wished  to  leave 
Rome  and  go  to  Paris ;  so,  as  we  had  the 
ready  money  to  pay,  he  leL  us  have  it  all  for 
very  little.  Once  the  whole  palace  belonged 
to  his  family,  but  long  ago  it  was  sold  to 
pay  his  debts,  and  all  the  furniture  and  pic- 
tures of  all  the  rooms,  except  this  suite,  which 
the  poor  contcssa  kept  for  herself.  We 
were  fortunate  to  get  it,  for  it  is  a  favorite 
apartment  with  all  the  foresticri,  and  we 
always  let  it  early  in  the  season.  But  my 
poor  Benedetto  and  me,  we  have  had  trou- 
ble enough,  so  it  is  time  now  to  be  blessed 
with  fome  good  luck."  And  she  sighed 
heavily  as  ehe  opened  the  door.  "  A  rive- 


dere.    I  hope  to  make  you  very  comfort- 
able to-morrow." 

The  next  day,  when  they  s:t  down  to 
dinner  in  their  well-arranged  dining-room, 
with  antique  sideboard,  straijil  carved 
chairs,  curious  old  silver  and  china,  and 
the  huge  brass  scnldino^ filled  with  coals  to 
take  the  chill  off  the  air,  which  alter 
was  uamp,  Mrs.  Tremaine  declared  she  was 
perfectly  happy,  and  that  living  in  a  palace, 
and  being  surrounded  by  what  had  belonged 
to  a  countess,  made  her  fancy  herself  an  an- 
cient Roman  lady  in  her  paternal  palace, 
attended  by  all  the  pomp  and  magnificence 
of  the  moyen  age.  ffc 

Constance  said  little  ;  she  was  quiet  and 
serious,  as  she  always  was  at  even  ch  m^e 
they  made,  for  she  thought  much  of  her  lost 
home.  It  was  not  easy  for  her  to  lay  aside 
the  old  life,  with  its  regular  English  routine 
so  formal  and  strict,  and  adapt  herself  at 
once  to  the  new,  with  the  freedom  and 
Bohemianism  incidental  to  Continental  wan- 
dering. However,  the  change  in  all  was 
not  unpleasant,  and  they  congratulated 
themselves  more  than  once  that  they  were 
so  agreeably  settled  for  the  win 

"So  near  my  dear  Pinci<>."  .-  i  1  Helen; 
"  and  such  a  nice  large  salon !  We  can  give 
little  receptions  and  tea-parties.  And  we 
must  find  out  and  cultivate  all  the  desirable 
people,  —  all  the  lions,  musical,  artistic,  and 
literary.  With  dear  Madame  and  Mr.  Car- 
negie for  onr  chaperons  we  can  go  every- 
where and  do  everything." 

'  You  forget,"  said  Constance,  sndly  glan- 
cing at  her  mourning  dress,  "I  cannot  <;  >  in- 
to society  this  winter." 

"  O,  I  can  assure  you  it  is  quite  the  thing 
on  the  Continent  to  go  to  small  : 
concerts,  and  such  innocent  atnusenic 
one  is  in  mourning.     Of  cour-c.  <:;>.-r.is  and 
balls  are  quite  another  thing." 

"  But  I  have  not  the  desire,"  replied  Con- 
stance, with  tearful  eye-; ;  •'  YOU  mu 
member  how  much  I  have,  raftered  recently. 
You  can  always  go  with  Madame  Lndel.and 
I  will  stay  at  home  quietly  and  study  music 
and  archaeology." 

"  We  won't  talk  of  that  now,  my  dears," 
said  Madame  Landel,  gently ;  "  we  will  take 
everything  as  it  comes,  and  dispose  of  it  as 
we  think  best.     In  our  own  home  w> 
always   surround   ourselves   with  d  -: 
society,  and  yet  not  be  very  gay  or  ia?hion- 
able." 

"  But  I  do  want  to  be  gay  ! "  <•:  ie  1  Mrs. 
Tremaine.  "  I  want  to  see  all  the  f.i^lii'  > 
society  of  Rome.      I  want  to  go  to  lulls,  to 
the  opera,  to  the  hunt,  and   all  that,  and. 
when  it  is  finished,  for  Lent  I  will  be  a 
ons  as  you  please." 

Mr.  Carnegie  entered  at  that  moment,  and 
Mrs.  Tremaine  appealed  to  him. 

"  Is  it  not  too  bad  1    Ma daine  and  Con- 


48 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


stance  are  going  to  shut  themselves  up  all 
winter,  so  I  cannot  go  into  society  !  " 

"That  will  be  a  great  loss  to  society," 
replied  Mr.  Carnegie ;  "  but  don't  make 
yourself  unhappy  on  that  account.  I  see 
you  are  determined  to  break  the  hearts  of 
a  score  of  these  dark-eyed  princes  and 
count's,  and  you  shall  have  a  fair  chance. 
If  the  ladies  are  determined  to  remain  in 
seclusion,  I  shall  find  some  friend  to  chape- 
rone  you ;  and  you  shall  not  waste  your 
sweetness  on  the  desert  air." 

He  sighed  and  laughed  together  at  her 
rapturous  thanks,  wishing  in  his  heart  that 
she  was  not  so  beautiful.  "  What  chance  is 
there  for  me  ?  "  he  thought.  "  She  will  be 
sought  after,  surrounded,  and  flattered ;  her 
grace,  youth,  elegance,  and  wit  will  make 
her  the  adored  of  one  sex,  while  she  will  be 
the  victim  of  the  other.  The  world  will  be 
hard  on  her.  She  is  so  independent,  free, 
and  frank,  they  will  mistake  it  for  lightness, 
and  while  they  flatter  her  to  her  face,  they 
will  slander  and  wound  her  when  she  has 
turned  away."  He  felt  a  stern  sort  of  pleas- 
ure in  knowing  that  he  should  always  be 
near  her  to  teach  her  by  his  devotion  the 
difference  between  his  love  and  the  hypoc- 
risy of  the  world.  "  After  they  have  de- 
ceived and  disgusted  her  by  their  falsehood 
and  insincerity,  perhaps  she  will  turn  to  me. 
I  can  wait.  Yes,  I  love  her  truly  and  deeply, 
and  I  can  wait."  Such  were  his  thoughts  as 
he  watched  her,  with  earnest  love  in  every 
glance,  flitting  here  and  there  about  the 
great  dimly  lighted  room,  her  fair  hair, 
lovely  face,  graceful  figure,  and  pale  blue 
dress  making  of  her  a  model  lor  a  me- 
diaeval saint. 

She  insisted  that  Constance  should  sing 
while  she  tried  the  piano,  which  had  been 
brought  in  during  the  day ;  and  as  she  sat 
running  her  fingers  lightly  over  the  keys, 
her  face  upturned  to  her  friend,  who  was 
leaning  on  her  shoulder,  he  thought  a  more 
lovely  inspiration  for  an  artist  could  not  be 
desired. 

Madame  Landel  and  he  sipped  their  tea 
by  the  bright  wood  fire  while  the  girls  sang  ; 
and  Guido  Bernardo,  alone  in  his  dull  room, 
smiled  as  he  tore  open  and  read  a  note 
which  he  found  on  his  table. 

When  Mr.  Carnegie  wished  them  good 
nrght,  Constance  exclaimed,  "Did  you  in- 
quire to-day  about  a  master  for  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed  I  did.  Have  you  ever  known 
me  to  forget  a  commission  ?  I  have  found 
the  best  master  in  Rome,  and  despatched  a 
note  to  him  desiring  him  to  call  on  you  to- 
morrow at  eleven.  I  hope  you  will  like 
him." 

"  Is  he  young  or  old,  handsome  or  ugly  ?  " 
demanded  Mrs.  Tremaine. 

"  I  am  sorry,  but  I  cannot  inform  you  on 
that  point.  As  I  did  not  suppose  his  looks  or 


age  were  of  importance,  I  made  inquiries 
only  respecting  his  merits  as  a  teacher,  and 
I  have  been  told  that  he  is  the  first  master  in 
Rome." 

"  O,  if  he  should  prove  to  be  that  angelic 
singer  of  St.  Peter's,  I  too  should  become  a 
student  at  once,"  lightly  rejoined  Mrs. 
Tremaine. 

And  Constance,  long  after  she  had  laid 
her  head  on  her  pillow,  thought,  "  What  if 
he  should  be  that  angelic  singer  of  St. 
Peter's  ?  " 

The  next  morning  she  was  awakened  by 
some  one  singing  near  her.  She  listened 
half  in  a  doubt  whether  it  were  a  dream  or 
a  reality;  but  she  was  fully  awake,  the  sun 
shone  into  her  room,  and  die  could  hear  the 
murmur  of  the  fountain  in  the  court  below. 
Yes,  some  one  was  singing  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  a  piano,  and  she  thought  she 
had  heard  the  voice  before,  —  a  voice  most 
rich,  clear,  and  triumphant.  Sometimes  it 
would  fall  into  a  low,  plaintive  strain,  and 
then  break  forth  joyously,  as  though  happy 
birds  were  let  loose  from  the  heart  of  the 
singer.  Almost  breathless,  she  followed  the 
voice  through  all  the  intricacies  of  sound, 
thinking  always  in  her  heart,  "  It  must  be ; 
there  can  be  no  other  voice  like  his."  She 
arose,  threw  on  her  dressing-gown,  and 
opened  the  window.  The  fresh  morning 
breeze,  the  odor  of  flowers,  and  the  warm 
sunshine  greeted  her  lovingly.  Almost  op- 
posite, on  the  other  side  of  the  court,  was 
an  open  window,  and  from  that  floated  the 
voice  that  was  like  the  sound  of  angels 
singing  in  paradise. 

A  strange  feeling  of  exaltation  filled  her 
heart.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  the  blue 
sky,  to  the  waving  trees,  on  the  face  of  the 
hills,  to  the  long  stretch  of  mountains 
bathed  in  golden  mist,  and  she  murmured, 
"  O  my  God,  I  thank  thee,  because  the 
world  is  so  beautiful.  Darkness  has  endured 
for  the  night,  and  now  with  the  morning 
cometh  light  and  joy."  With  that  song 
there  entered  into  her  heart  a  new  peace, 
strange  and  sweet.  What  it  was  she  knew 
not,  but  the  shadows  that  had  hung  over 
her  so  long  seemed  to  have  arisen,  floated 
away,  and  disappeared  in  the  clear  blue  of 
the  distant  heavens. 

On  the  impulse  of  her  new  happiness  she 
wrote  a  long  letter  to  Lady  Dinsmore,  tell- 
ing her  of  her  changed  feelings,  her  new 
ho'me,  and  her  first  impressiors  of  the  Eter- 
nal City.  Just  as  she  was  closing  it  a 
servant  knocked  at  the  door,  and  told 
her  some  one  was  waiting  for  her  in  the 
salon. 

She  glanced  in  the  mirror,  smoothing  a 
little  the  waves  of  her  hair,  and  arranging 
the  cord  that  confined  her  black  cashmere 
morning-dress,  and  then  entered  the  salon. 

A  tall  graceful  figure  in  the  robes  of  a 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


priest,  stood  with  his  back  to  the  door  look- 
ing at  a  picture  over  the  piano.  He  did  not 
see  her  until  she  was  by  his  side  and  spoke. 
Then  he  turned,  and  she  saw  before  her  the 
noble  face,  the  dark  melancholy  eyes,  and 
the  gentle  smile  of  Guido  Bernardo,  the 
ginger  of  St.  Peter's.  A  faint  flush  passed 
over  his  face,  but  he  bowed  calmly,  and,  she 
thought,  a  little  proudly,  and  then  waited 
for  her  to  speak. 

There  was  a  strange  agitation  in  her 
heart  that  she  could  not  control  as  she 
desired  him  to  be  seated,  and  began  to 
speak  in  regard  to  her  studies.  His  grave, 
refined  manner,  the  intelligence  and  simple 
sincerity  of  his  remarks,  placed  her  at  once 
at  her  ease,  and  convinced  her  that  she  was 
talking  to  a  person  of  no  ordinary  charac- 
ter and  talent,  and  to  one  in  no  way  inferior 
to  herself. 

After  a  little  conversation,  he  desired  her 
to  sing,  that  he  might  judge  of  her  style. 
When  she  had  finished  he  did  not  flatter 
her  in  the  least,  but  told  her  simply  that  her 
voice  was  very  flexible  and  sweet,  yet  she 
had  fallen  into  some  serious  faults  of  execu- 
tion which  she  must  correct  at  once.  There 
was  a  force  and  gravity  in  his  words  that 
impressed  her  with  a  belief  in  his  superior 
genius ;  and  although  he  was  young,  his  face 
and  manner  inspired  her  with  a  sort  of 
reverence.  And  she  felt  from  that  moment 
that  the  least  wish  expressed  by  his  lips 
would  be  law  to  one  who  loved  him. 

He  still  sat  at  the  piano,  and  often,  in  ex- 
planation of  some  remark,  he  sang  a  few 
notes.  Then  she  recognized  the  voice  she 
had  heard  in  the  morning.  She  was  much 
puzzled  by  this  coincidence,  but  dared  not 
ask  for  an  explanation. 

After  naming  an  hour  for  her  lessons,  he 
said,  "  I  hope  my  practising  at  so  early  an 
hour  in  the  morning  does  not  disturb  you." 

"  Why,"  inquired  Constance,  "  do  you 
live  near  ?  and  was  it  you  I  heard  singing 
this  morning  ?  " 

"  Yes," he  replied,  with  a  quiet  smile,  "I 
live  very  near,  —  in  fact,  in  the  same  house, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  court.  This  old 
palace  has  been  my  home  for  five  years." 

As  he  was  leaving  the  room  Mrs.  Tre- 
maine  entered.  She  could  scarcely  conceal 
her  astonishment  until  Guido  had  closed 
the  door,  then  she  broke  forth  :  — 

"  What  a  romance  in  real  life  !  He  is  the 
singer  at  St.  Peter's.  I  believe  Mr.  Carnegie 
knew  it  all  the  time,  and  only  wished  to 
surprise  us.  And  he  is  even  handsomer 
near  than  at  a  distance,  and  there  is  some- 
thing so  aristocratic  and  high-bred  in  his 
air.  I  am  sure  he  is  some  ruined  noble  who 
is  not  too  proud  to  earn  his  living  honestly." 

"  He  lives  very  near  us,"  said  Constance, 
with  a  slight  blush,  "  in  the  other  part  of 
this  house,  across  the  court." 


"  In  this  very  house  !  well,  that  <s  strange. 
You  are  fortunate,  because  your  room  is  on 
the  court,  where  you  can  always  hear  him 
sin<r.  Now  see  how  I  am  ptmi.-hed  for  my 
selfishness  in  taking  the  best  room  because 
it  was  on  the  street." 

Constance  laughed,  and  replied  that  she 
had  always  preferred  the  court,  tor  the  rea- 
son that  it  was  more  quiet  than  the  street. 

"  Any  way  it  is  delightful,"  continued 
Helen,  "  because  we  shall  see  him  often.  I 
think,"  with  a  sly  glance  at  Constance, 
"  you  will  find  music  a  delightful  study  with 
such  an  interesting  master." 

That  evening  while  Filomena  gave  Guido 
his  supper  she  talked  incessantly  of  the  two 
lovely  girls.  "  The  dark  one  is  so  sweet 
and  gentle,  and  the  fair  one  is  so  gay  ?he 
is  like  a  dancing  sunbeam.  But  which  dost 
thou  think  the  fairest,  maestro  mi<>  !  " 

Guido's  eyes  grew  softer,  and  his  smile 
more  tender,  as  he  replied,  "  The  dark 
one." 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

MRS.  TREMAINE  AND   THE   PRINCE   COXTI. 

RS.  TREMAINE  had  been  to  a  recep- 
tion at  the  French  Ambassador's  with 
Lady  Charlotte  Lennox,  a  friend  of  Mr. 
Carnegie.  Constance  sat  up  to  wait  for 
her,  and  when  she  came  she  was  not  at  all 
tired,  never  had  looked  more  bewitc-hingly 
lovely,  and  was  perfectly  wild  with  the  ex- 
citement and  triumph  of  the  evening.  The 
Prince  Conti  had  been  presented  to  her  by 
the  Ambassador,  and  he  had  danced  with 
her  twice,  and  paid  her  such  marked  atten- 
tion that  the  American  heiress  had  turned 
green  with  jealousy,  and  the  old  banker 
had  immediately  decided  to  add  another 
hundred  thousand  to  the  proposed  marriage 
settlements. 

Indeed,  as  Constance  afterward  learned 
from  Mr.  Carnegie,  Helen  was  the  belle  of 
the  evening,  and  had  attracted  quite  enough 
attention  to  turn  a  steadier  head  than  hers. 
After  he  had  recounted  her  triumphs  with  a 
sad  face  and  nervous,  uneasy  manner,  he 
added,  as  though  to  console  hinwlf,  that  he 
had  just  discovered  a  rare  old  collection  of 
nHtjv/ica,  which  he  hoped  to  get  possession 
of  at  a  reasonable  price. 

The  more  Mrs.  Tremaine  danced  and 
flirted  and  laughed,  the  more  Mr.  Carnojie 
poked  into  dusty,  musty,  old  lir'n--ti-l>ra,: 
shops,  and  explored  out-of-the-way  places 
from  the  Ghetto  to  the  Babuino,  in  hopes 
to  discover  something  unit/lie  to  console  him 
for  the  treasure  lie  could  not  have.  He 
began  three  different  novels,  and  got  as 
far  as  the  third  chapter:  but  all  his  char- 
acters had  fair  hair  and  large  blue  eyes, 


50 


WOVKX    OF  MANY   THREADS. 


'  'T  i.-  licttcr  to  hnvo  loved  and  lost 
Thau  never  to  luivo  loved  at  all.'' 


and  \voro,   in   fact,  pen-portraits  of  sweet   of  the  dead  heart,  "  "Woe  to  that  being  on 
!  Tremaiii.'.     Ho  tried  to  paint;  but    whom    this    knowledge    dawns    too    late  I 
•i-k   Roman  models    all  |  Woe  for  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  soul 
:he  same  features,  and,  in  spite  of  him- ;  that  has  once  feasted  at  the  heavenly  ban- 
Mack    hair  became   gold,   the   dusky  |  quet,  for  nothing  after  can  satisfy  its  long- 
In-ow  white  as  a  tender  rose-leaf,  the    ing  !  "    Is  it  better  never  to  have  drunk  from 
••line  of  the  rfimji'if/iia  a  delicate    the    cup   of  Ganymede    because   we   must 
with  long,  graceful  folds,  and  he  •  thirst  again  ?     Is  it  better  never  to  have 
him  a  faint  outline  of  one  of  Fra   had  a  glimpse  of  the  rose-gardens  of  Eden 
:icd's  saints.      It  was  of  no  use;  the   because  the  gates  are  closed  to  us  forever ? 
stream  of  his  life  was  changed,  and  he  could   I  believe 
not  make  it  flow  back  into  its  old  channel. 
All  that  remained  for  him  was  to  watch  his 

,'.nd  wait.  But  Constance  did  not  know  she  loved  this 

And  a  new  life  had  opened  before  Con-  young  singer.  She  did  not  pause  to  ana- 
stance,  —  a  soft,  sunny,  verdant  vista,  down  lyze  her  feelings.  She  only  knew  she  was 
which  she  looked  with  glad  eyes  and  smiling  :  happy,  happier  than  she  had  ever  been  in 
lips.  Her  feet  lingered  lightly  in  the  rose-  her  life.  Was  it  the  blue  sky,  the  balmy 
etrewn  way,  and  she  inhaled  new  odors  j  air,  of  Italy,  the  thousand  beautiful  things 
that  were  not  of  earth.  The  trees  were  of  |  in  nature  and  art  that  surrounded  her  ? 
a  more  tender  green,  and  the  boughs  were  She  did  not  know,  she  did  not  inquire ; 
filled  with  singing  birds.  There  was  music  j  she  only  felt  the  lightness,  the  buoyancy,  of 
everywhere;  there  was  music  in  her  heart,  a  heart  at  rest. 

and  the  f  oft  air  around  her  breathed  music.  Her  musical  studies  were  to  her  a  source 
She  awoke  to  its  sound,  and  she  slept  with  I  of  never-ending  delight.  She  practised 
that  voice  reverberating  in  her  ears.  For  |  indefatigably,  following  every  gentle  hint 
all  the  chambers  of  her  heart  were  filled  of  her  master,  striving  only  for  his  approval, 
with  a  delicious  melody.  It  was  the  birth  and  quite  contented  if  she  saw  that  he  was 


of  that  experience  which  comes  to  us  but 
once. 

Let  philosophers  and  sages  say  that  love 
is  a  myth,  or  that  the  human  heart  is  capable 
of  more  than  one  grande  passion,  and  I  affirm 
and  maintain,  on  the  evidence  of  every 
living  FOU!  that  has  loved,  the  reality  of 
lovgfcaml  the  utter  impossibility  of  loving 
more  than  once.  All  that  has  preceded, 
all  that  may  come  after,  is  but  friendship ; 
or,  call  it  what  you  may,  it  is  not  the  flame 
kindled  by  the  divine  spark  that  God  has 


pleased  with  her  efforts.  Scarcely  a  day  or 
an  evening  passed  without  her  seeing  him. 
Indeed,  he  had  become  at  once  a  iavorite 
Avith  all.  His  noble  face,  his  gentle,  high-bred 
manners,  the  charm  of  his  talent,  and  his 
pure  simple  nature,  left  their  impression  on 
all  whom  he  encountered.  Madame  Landel 
loved  him  very  soon  with  a  motherly  sort  of 
affection  ;  and  even  Mr.  Carnegie,  proud 
Englishman  though  he  was,  with  all  an  Eng- 
lishman's prejudices  against  Italians,  found 
nothing  to  condemn  in  Guido.  Mrs.  Tre- 


our  souls. 

A  vear  before  Constance  believed 


given  to  us  as  a  sign  of  the  immortality  of  I  maine  petted  him  much  as  one  would  a 

younger  brother,  demanded  all  sorts  of  little 
she  services  of  him,  praised,  scolded,  or  coun- 
had  loved,  but  she  had  only  felt  that  cold  sclled  him,  as  she  felt  in  the  humor.  It  was 
affection  which  so  many  poor  mistaken  evident  Guido  liked  her,  and  admired  her, 
creatures  consider  the  heaven-born  passion,  but  with  the  same  admiration  one  bestows 
She  might  have  married  Richard  Vandeleur  '•  on  a  lovely  picture.  Between  him  and  Con- 
and  gone  through  life  happy  and  contented, 
because  in  all  probability  she  never  would 


ve  met  the  one  being  created  to  explain 
to  her  this  mystery  of  love.  She  would 
have  been  comparatively  happy,  because  she 
never  would  have  missed  what  she  had 
never  known.  But  there  would  have  been 
no  strains  of  divine  melody  ringing  like 
il  bells  to  blend  and  harmonize  the 
discords  of  lift- ;  no  pinning  birds  in  all  the 
green  shade ;  no  an<rel  faces  in  the  blue 
ether.  No  breath  of  paradise  would  have 
blown  across  her  path,  to  stir  the  inmost 
depths  of  her  soul  with  an  ecstatic  thrill, 
Fiich  as  the  free  spirit  feels  when  some 
'1  morning  it  beholds  the  gl 

tor  its  admission.     Neither 
can  I   say,  with  the  cold,  keen  philosophy 


stance  there  was  that  grave  but  sweet  re- 
serve that  marks  the  first  stage  of  the  tender 
passion.  They  did  not  converse  much  with 
each  other,  there  were  no  light  words  of 
jesting  banter  between  them  ;  but  often 
their  eyes  met  for  an  instant,  and  in  that 
instant  how  many  revelations  were  made, 
how  many  secrets  were  betrayed  that 
neither  had  acknowledged  to  themselves ! 
They  often  sang  together,  —  the  pure,  fresh 
voice  of  Constance  mingling  and  harmoniz- 
ing with  the  glorious  tones  of  her  master, 
sometimes  in  impassioned  romances,  but 
more  frequently  in  the  grand  and  solemn 
music  of  the  Church.  Guido  had  at  last 
found  one  who  thoroughly  understood  and 
sympathized  with  him  in  his  love  for  his 
divine  art;  and  this  drew  their  souls  nearer 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


51 


together,  and  formed  between  them  a  per- 
fect bond  of  union. 

Often  in  the  quiet  of  his  own  room,  in- 
stead of  writing  late  into  the  night,  as  had 
been  his  custom,  Guido  would  sit  with  his 
arms  folded,  lost  in  de?p  thought.  Some- 
times his  eyes  would  lose  their  sadness,  and 
bea.u  with  the  light  of  joy  ;  a  smile  of  ten- 
derness would  tremble  on  his  lips,  and  he 
would  seem  transfigured  for  a  moment  by  the 
power  of  this  new  experience.  Then  sudden- 
ly the  light  would  fade  away  and  gloom  over- 
spread his  face ;  tears  would  dim  his  eyes, 
and  he  would  murmur,  with  pale,  compressed 
•  lips,  "  No,  no,  it  is  madness ;  J  must  not 
dream  of  that  joy,  it  is  not  for  such  as  I !  " 

Mrs.  Tremaine  was  very  gay  and  happy. 
Scarcely  an  evening  passed  that  she  was 
not  the  chief  attraction  of  some  fashionable 
circle.  Lady  Charlotte  Lennox,  who  was 
always  ready  to  chaperon  a  lovely  young 
lady,  found  herself  in  demand;  for  Helen 
did  not  hesitate  to  make  her  friends  useful, 
exacting  all  sorts  of  attention  with  a  good- 
natured  selfishness  none  could  resist.  Then 
Mr.  Carnegie  and  Lady  Charlotte  were  fast 
friends,  and  they  went  everywhere  together, 
guarding  between  them  the  treasure,  —  one 
with  pride,  the  other  with  love. 

There  was  no  one  so  popular  that  season 
as  Helen.  All  the  young  Italian  nobles 
coveted  her  slightest  smile,  would  have  fall- 
en at  her  feet  and  worshipped  her,  would 
have  died  to  gratify  her  lightest  caprice,  — 
or,  at  least,  so  they  said  in  their  anonymous 
billets  and  impassioned  serenades ;  but  she 
treated  all  with  the  same  saucy  scorn  anrl  in- 
difference, except  the  Prince  Conti.  There 
were  times,  when  he  approached  her,  that 
she  would  have  given  worlds  for  the  power 
to  subdue  the  fluttering  of  her  heart  and 
control  her  rising  color.  All  her  other 
young  adorers  called  her  cold,  heartless, 
beautiful,  superb,  but  only  a  marble.statue. 
The  Prince  Conti  had  seen  the  warm  (lush 
dye  her  lovely  cheek,  and  felt  the  little 
hand  tremble  in  his,  and  he  knew  he  was 
the  Pygmalion  that  was  to  inspire  this  love- 
ly creation  with  the  life  of  pa?sion.  It  was 
evident  he  loved'  her.  He  hung  upon  her 
steps  like  a '  shadow  •.  and  %Heien,  —  how 
could  she  resist  him  1  Was  he  not  a  prince, 
and  the  Apollo  of  princes  ? 

It  was  Helen's  birthday  ;  and  there  came 
among  the  dozens  of  bouquets  one  of  rare 
flowers,  and  in  the  centre  of  a  lily  was  fas- 
tened a  small  hoop  of  diamonds,  on  the  in- 
side of  which  was  engraved  the  word  *'  X/.r- 
ranza"  She  turned  very  pale,  and  placed 
it  without  a  word  upon  her  finger  ;  and 
long  after,  when  those  lovely  hands  were 
folded  for  their  eternal  rest,  that  ring  still 
sparkled  where  she  had  placed  it.  Through 
the  day  all  her  young  friends  came  "!tli 
flowers  and  gifts  to  wish  her  buonafestu,  aud 


among  them  the  Prince  Conti.  Constance 
stood  near  Helen  when  he  took  her  hand, 
and  she  thought  she  detected  an  expression 
of  triumph  when  his  eye  tell  upon  the  ring. 
He  was  as  sure  then,  as  in  all  that  ] 
after,  that  she  loved  him.  From  that  day 
he  became  a  frequent  visitor,  and  begged  to 
be  allowed  to  join  them  in  their  excursions 
and  rides.  He  found  the  safest  and  fastest 
horses,  and  showed  them  the  most  delight- 
ful roads  in  the  campagna,  and  he  knew 
where  were  the  most  interesting  ruins,  and 
all  the  traditions  and  histories  of  them. 
Constance,  Helen,  Mr.  Carnegie,  and  the 
Prince  rode  together,  while  often  Lady 
Charlotte,  Madame  Landcl,  and  Guido 
would  accompany  them  in  the  carriage. 
These  were  delightful  days  to  all  the  party, 
except  poor  Mr.  Carnegie,  who  always  rode 
with  Constance,  pale  and  silent,  now  and 
then  casting  furtive,  wistful  glances  at  Mrs. 
Tremaine,  whose  light,  clear  laugh  was  borne 
back  to  them  by  the  breeze  as  she  cantered 
joyously  by  the  side  of  the  Prince. 

One  morning  they  all  set  off,  full  of  life 
and  spirits,  to  visit  the  fountain  of  Egeria. 
When  they  reached  the  old  ruined  temple; 
at  the  termination  of  the  carriage-drive 
they  dismounted,  and,  after  lunching  mer- 
rily under  the  shade  of  the  Sacred  Forest, 
started  to  walk  across  the  valley  of  the 
Almo  to  the  spot  where  tradition  says  that 
Numa  held  intercourse  with  his  favorite 
nymph. 

The  morning  had  been  delightful ;  but 
now,  about  midday,  suddenly  the  sun 
clouded  over,  and  a  strange,  hissing  sound 
seemed  to  run  along  the  earth,  and  the  old 
trees  behind  waved  their  weird  branches 
with  a  portentous  solemnity.  Mr.  Car- 
negie glanced  up  at  the  darkening  sky,  and 
said,  "  We  must  hurry ;  there  will  be  a 
heavy  shower  soon." 

"  I  think  not  very  soon,"  observed  the 
Prince,  who  had  just  offered  his  arm  to  Mrs. 
Tremaine.  "  If \ve-walk  fast  we  shall  have 
;ime  to  reach  the  fountain  and  return " ; 
and  off  they  started  at  a  brisk  rate,  far  in 
advance  of  the  others. 

Constance  and  Guido  were  walking  to- 
gether, while  Mr.  Carnegie  was  behind  with 
the  other  ladies.  She  glanced  at  her  com- 
panion more  than  once.  He  seemed  sad 
and  abstracted ;  his  arms  were  folded,  his 
long,  black  mantle  floated  behind  him  in 
the  wind ;  his  head  was  bare,  for  he  carried 
his  hat  in  his  hand,  saying  he  liked  the  cool 
air  on  his  forehead.  There  was  an  expres- 
sion on  his  face  that  she  had  never  before 
seen,  —  a  weary,  troubled  look,  as  of  one 
who  had  waged  a  hard  battle  with  self,  and 
had  been  vanquished  when  he  had  most  de- 
sired the  victory. 

"  You  are  very  sad  and  silent  to-day,"  she 
said,  after  a  few  indifferent  remarks  ;  "  this 


AYOYKX   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


scene    of  desolation     and   ruin    depresses 

voo." 

"  O  no,"  he  replied,  with   an  eloquent 

glance,  "  I  am  not  sad,  I  am  too  happy.  I 

am  alwav*  silent  when  I  am  most  happy. 

Neither  do  1  find  it  dreary  li.re;  there  is  a 

charm  in  this  :-pot  difficult  to  describe,  and 

iy  ;-ky  and  ri>ing  wind  are  in 

fog  \\ith  the  scene.     See  yonder  shep- 

ralliiiu:  his  flock  U-gcther,  to  seek 

a  re  tup1 from  the  threatening  heavens.   How 

plaintive  is  the  sound  of  his  pipe  !  it  is  like 

a   wail   that  foretells  the  coining  tempest. 

And  I  fear  it  will  be  upon  us  before  we  can 

reach  a  shelter." 

She  glanced  back.  Mr.  Carnegie  and  the 
ladies  had  turned  and  were  hastening  to  the 
Sacred  Forest.  Helen  and  the  Prince  were 
far  ahead,  utterly  oblivious,  in  each  other's 
society,  of  the  storm  about  to  break  upon 
them. 

"  Let  us  remain  here  for  a  moment,"  said 
Guido.  as  they  reached  the  foot  of  the  hill 
on  which  stand  th  ruins  of  the  temple  of 
Bacchus.  "  Here  in  this  shallow  cave  is  a 
little  shelter." 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  gust  swept  by  them, 
and  the  great  drops  fell  with  a  heavy  patter 
on  the  dried  earth  at  their  feet.  For  a  few 
moments  the  wind  was  fearful,  and  the 
place  offered  little  protection  against  the 
fury  of  the  elements.  Guido  glanced  into 
the  pale  face  at  his  side,  and  he  saw  her 
turn  paler  and  tremble  as  a  vivid  flash  of 
lightning  shot  by  them,  followed  by  a  deaf- 
ening crash  of  thunder.  With  a  sudden  im- 
pulse of  tenderness  he  threw  his  mantle 
around  her  and  drew  her  close  to  hi?  heart. 
A  moment  of  silent  rapture,  a  moment  of 
more  than  bliss,  in  which  their  souls  knew 
<-:irh  other  and  rushed  together;  though  no 
word  was  spoken,  though  no  vow  passed 
their  lips,  yet  the  great  secret  that  each 
had  hidden  from  the  other  was  revealed  in 
all  its  strength  and  fervor.  They  loved 
each  other,  and  henceforth  their  fouls  could 
never  be  separated,  even  though  their 
bodies  were  parted  forever  ;  through  all 
time,  through  all  eternity,  the  immortal  part 
would  remain  one. 

This  revelation  burst  with  startling  power 
upon  the  mind  of  Constance,  as  she  rested 
for  one  moment  against  the  heart  that  beat 
?o  tumultuously  for  her.  Then,  deadly  pale, 
(•ho  disengaged  herself  from  his  embrace 
and  turned  away  coldly  and  haughtily,  say- 
ing, in  a  constrained  voice,  "The  strength 
•  t  the  storm  is  passed,  let  us  go  on." 

For  a  moment  Guido  looked  at  her  like 
one  stupefied  ;  then  a  scornful,  bitter  ex- 
pression passed  over  his  face,  but  he  said, 
gently  and  calmly,  "  Pardon  me,  Siynorina, 
1  meant  but  to  shelter  you  from  the  storm. 
Yes»,  let  us  go  on ;  the  worst  is  over." 

The  rain  still  fell  heavily,  but  after  a  few 


moments  of  hurried  walking,  during  which 
neither  spoke,  they  reached  the  grotto  where 
Helen  and  the  Prince  had  already  arrived, 
wet  and  tempest-tossed,  it  is  true,  but  chat- 
ting and  laughing  as  merrily  as  ever. 

"  Here  we  will  remain  until  the  shower  is 
entirely  over,"  said  Guido,  as  he  folded  his 
mantle  and  laid  it  on  a  wet  stone  to  form  a 
seat  for  Constance.  "  You  are  pale  and 
tired  from  your  rapid  walk ;  sit  here,  and 
I  will  bring  you  some  water  to  refresh 
you." 

He  gave  her  a  cool  draught  in  a  little 
silver  cup  Mrs.  Tremaine  had  brought  to 
drink  from  ;  then  he  stood  looking  at  her 
with  a  sad,  dreary  expression  of  mingled 
pain  and  disappointment.  It  told  more 
than  words  could  how  deeply  she  had 
wounded  him. 

As  she  gave  him  back  the  cup,  her  eyes 
lilled  with  tears, -and  she  said  softly,  laying 
her  hand  upon  his  for  a  moment,  "  Forget 
what  has  passed  ;  I,  too,  will  forget  it.  Now 
tell  me  about  this  mysterious  place." 

The  Prince  was  twining  graceful  maiden's- 
hair  and  ivy  into  a  wreath  for  Helen,  who 
had  laid  aside  her  hat  and  was  arranging 
her  dishevelled  gold,  which  the  wind  had 
torn  from  its  fastenings. 

"  I  can  believe  this  to  have  been  the  abode 
of  all  the  nymphs  since  the  Creation,"  she 
said.  "  It  seems  to  be  the  very  spot  for  the 
dwelling-place  of  the  light-footed  creatures. 
How  lovely  it  must  have  been  when  the  green 
moss  of  the  spring  was  sprinkled  with  am- 
brosial drops  that  fell  from  the  damp  tresses 
of  Egeria !  and  how  strange  to  think  that 
this  same  fountain  sparkles  and  bubbles 
and  runs  over  the  margin  into  the  basin 
among  the  maiden's-hair  fern  and  wild  ivy 
as  it  did  in  the  irreclaimable  days  when 
gods  and  goddesses  descended  to  hold  inter- 
course with  mortals !  But  then,"  she  said, 
with  an  arch  smile,  "  men  were  half  gods, 
and  all  women  were  nymphs." 

"And  now,"  replied  the  Prince,  with  an 
ardent  glance  of  admiration,  "  all  men  are 
mortal ;  and  all  women  are  angels,  and  much 
lovelier  than  these  beings  of  an  ideal  cre- 
ation." 

"  One  might  fancy,"  said  Guido,  pointing 
to  the  mutilated  recumbent  statue,  "  that 
pome  presuming  mortal  had  dared  to  pene- 
trate into  the  enchanted  shade,  and  an 
indignant  goddess  had  transformed  him  into 
this  dumb  marble." 

"  Very  poetical,  Signer  Guido,  but  more 
poetical  than  real,  as  in  all  probability  this 
romantic  spot  was  nothing  more  than  a  liath 
where  the  lusty  contadini  came  to  lave 
th;:ir  tired  limbs  after  their  day's  toil  in  the 
neighboring  fields." 

"  O,"  cried  Constance,  "  how  can  you  de- 
stroy our  cherished  illusions  by  such  a 
commonplace  explanation !  The  beauty  and 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


53 


seclusion  of  the  spot  make  me  desire  to  be- 
lieve in  the  truth  of  the  tradition." 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said,  "  but  would  you 
teach  me  that  fiction  is  better  than  truth  ? 
But  see,  the  rain  is  over,  and  the  wind 
has  gone  to  rest  like  a  tired  child.  Let  us 
get  to  the  horses  before  there  is  another 
shower." 

Guido  walked  by  the  side  of  Constance, 
silent  and  grave,  and  she  was  too  much  ab- 
sorbed in  her  own  thoughts  to  make  any 
effort  to  converse.  The  wind  had  fallen  to 
rest,  as  the  Prince  said,  like  a  tired  child 
that  had  raged  and  moaned  until  its 
strength  was  spent,  and  now  all  was  calm 
and  still.  That  silence,  almost  stupor,  had 
succeeded  which  is  so  suggestive  of  ex- 
hausted, worn-out  passions. 

They  found  the  ladies  sitting  in  the  car- 
riage, and  Mr.  Carnegie  pacing  back  and 
forth  with  bowed  head  and  moody  face. 

"  Are  you  wet  ?  "  he  inquired  anxiously, 
f.s  Mrs.  Tremaine  approached. 

"  A  little,"  she  replied,  smiling,  "  but  a 
sharp  canter  will  set  us  all  right " ;  and, 
scarcely  touching  the  proffered  hand  of  the 
Prince,  she  sprang  into  the  saddle. 

That  evening  Helen  did  not  go  out,  and 
the  Prince  came,  as  he  usually  did  when 
she  was  at  home.  They  sat  apart  from  the 
others,  talking  in  low  tones,  while  they 
turned  over  a  book  of  drawings.  Mr.  Car- 
negie and  Madame  Landel  sipped  their  tea 
in  silence  by  the  fire,  and  Constance  and 
Guido  were  at  the  piano.  In  spite  of  the 
episode  of  the  morning  they  both  seemed 
happy,  and  Guido's  face  had  recovered  its 
usual  serene  expression.  They  sang,  yet 
did  not  select  the  impassioned  romances  of 
Italy,  but  rather  the  noble  compositions  of 
Mozart  and  Beethoven,  and  parts  of  Cheru- 
bim's Slabat  Mater,  and  the  tender,  exquisite 
Ave  Maria  of  Cerissimi. 

That  night,  after  Constance  went  to  her 
room,  she  walked  the  floor  for  long  hours, 
searching  into  the  depths  of  her  heart  with 
troubled  earnestness,  trying  to  decipher 
what  was  written  there.  One  by  one  the 
words  came  out  cl(»r  and  distinct,  and  stood 
before  her  in  letters  of  fire,  and  grew,  and 
increased,  and  repeated  themselves,  but  al- 
ways in  the  same  form,  —  "1  love  him,  I  love 
him." 

And  Guido,  on  his  knees  before  the  pic- 
ture of  the  Madonna,  his  long  black  robes 
falling  around  him,  with  pale  uplifted  face 
and  extended  hands,  looked  like  some  suf- 
fering saint,  imploring  mercy  from  the 
Mother  of  God. 

"  Oh !  "  he  moaned,  "  T  love  her,  I  love  her, 
and  I  muse  tear  her  from  my  heart.  She 
does  not  know  what  I  am,  she  does  not  know 
the  barrier  of  disgrace  that  separates  us. 
Yes,  I  love  her,  but  I  must  forget  her  or 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A    USELESS     QUEST. 

IX  a  small,  neatly  furnished  apartment  on 
the  Lung'  Arno,  in  Florence,  sat  a 
gentleman  deeply  engaged  ill  writing.  It 
was  Richard  Vandeleur,  but  how  changed 
from  the  Richard  Vandeleur  of  Ilchnsibrd  ! 
His  face  was  ihin,  almost  haggard  ;  his  mouth 
had  those  downward  curves  of  melancholy 
depression  which  tell  so  plainly  of  the  deep 
thought  and  suffering  that  have  marked  a 
life  ;  his  eyes  were  sad  but  gentle,  and  his 
brow  lined  and  contracted ;  his  hair  was 
thinner,  and  mixed  around  the  temples  with 
gray ;  his  face  was  brown  from  exposure  to 
the  sun  of  Eastern  deserts,  and  the  lower 
part  was  entirely  covered  by  a  long  grizzled 
beard.  His  whole  dress  betokened  a  care- 
lessness of  the  world's  opinion,  an  utter  in- 
difference to  appearance  ;  and  yet  he  looked 
a  gentleman  in  spite  of  all,  but  so  weary  and 
worn,  so  old  and  changed,  that  Constance, 
had  she  seen  him,  would  scarcely  have  rec- 
ognized him  as  the  elegant  man  of  fashion 
she  had  known  a  year  and  a  half  1> 
It  is  true  he  had  lost  some  of  his  former 
almost  effeminate  refinement,  but  he  had 
gained  much  in  its  stead.  There,  was  a 
certain  earnestness  and  resolution  in  his 
expression  that  told  he  was  no  longer  an 
idler,  but  a  constant,  unwearied  actor  in  the 
great  drama  of  life.  A  few  months  !>• 
he  h:ul  returned  from  the  East,  where  he 
had  sought  in  vain  for  happiness  and  \'~ 
fulness.  lie  had  returned  to  the  ciii 
Europe,  to  the  same  men,  to  the  same 
places,  to  the  same  things  he  had  left,  still 
oppressed  with  the  same  hungering  heart, 
the  same  unpeaceable  soul,  ever  pursued 
by  the  thought  of  his  lost  ye.irs  and  the 
remorse  that  had  so  blighted  his  lite.  In 
almost  every  hour,  in  everv  place,  the  words 
of  Constance  still  sounded  in  his  ears  : 
"  Seek  her  throughout  the  world,  and,  if  she 
still  lives,  make  her  what  reparation  is  in 
your  power."  lie  had  sought  her,  and.  the 
more  he  sought,  the  more  the  memory  of 
those  days  of  wild  sweet  joy,  when  she  had 
been  all  to  him,  entered  and  took  possession 
of  his  heart;  and  the,  more  lie  thought  of 
her  innocence  and  purity,  lie.-  gentle  nature, 
the  more  difficult  he  found  it  to  believe  that 
she  had  indeed  sinin'd  so  deeply.  Time 
and  suffering  had  softened  his  heart,  and 
taught  him  to  be  more  merciful.  There 
were  hours  when  a  suspicion,  too  horrible  to 
be  endured,  would  (lash  across  his  mind, 
what  if  that  man  whom  lie  had  trusted  had 
deceived  him  and  the  poor  child  he  left  in 
his  charge  '.'  ••  I  will  seek  tor  him."  In-  would 
cry,  in  a  paroxysm  of  rage,  "  I  will  find 
him  and  wring  the  truth  from  him,  or  I  will 
shed  his  heart's  blood."  Then  often  to  these 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


storms  of  passion  would  succeed  a  gloomy 
reaction,  when  he  would  reason  coolly  to 
hiiiiM-lf  in  this  wise:  "Jf  she  had  loved  me 
aiyl  l.ecn  true  to  me,  nothing  could  have 
turn  her  1'rom  me.  It' she.  had  been  deceived 
and  decoyed  from  the  home  where  I  left 
her,  she  knew  my  name,  she  could  have 
found  me.  In  all  these  years,  if  she  were 
innocent  and  living,  I  should  have  heard 
from  her.  O,  if  I  could  but  find  her,  and 
know  1  had  been  deceived,  and  she  was  the 
same  sweet  child  I  worshipped  in  those 
golden  days  of  youth  and  love,  life  might 
still  be  something  to  me,  I  might  yet  be 
happy ! " 

This  evening,  as  he  sat  alone  in  his  room 
steadily  writing,  he  was  striving,  as  he  al- 
ways was  now,  to  find  distraction  in  labor, 
never  in  pleasure.  For  several  weeks  he 
had  been  wandering  along  the  Adriatic 
coast,  stopping  in  every  small  town  and 
hamlet,  searching  by  every  means  possible 
for  some  information  concerning  his  earnest 
quest.  He  had  visited  again  the  scene  of 
those  happy  hours  ;  he  had  sat  in  the  little 
garden,  under  the  same  orange-trees  where, 
ten  years  before,  the  golden  summer  days 
had  gone  on  like  an  idyl  of  Arcadia.  And 
such  a  summer  he  had  never  known  since, 
because  he  never  again  had  the  fame  fresh 
heart,  the  same  faith  and  trust ;  and  now, 
looking  back  through  the  dark  and  tangled 
vista  of  all  the  years,  he  could  truly  say, 
"  Those  were  the  blessed  days  of  my  life  !  " 
The  cottage  was  empty'  and  closed,  but  he 
readily  gained  permission,  to  enter ;  the  ser- 
vant who  had  been  in  his  employ  was  dead 
or  gone,  hone  knew  which.  He  could  learn 
nothing  there ;  but  still  he  wished  to  see 
once  more  the  place  so  filled  with  sweet 
associations,  —  the  little  rooms  where  they 
had  lived,  day  after  day,  in  the  closest  of  all 
the  relations  of  life.  He  threw  himself  on 
his  knees  before  the  window  where  they 
had  sat  hour  after  hour;  where  she  had 
stood  so  often  by  his  side,  her  arm  around 
his  neck,  her  soft  cheek  resting  on  his  hair, 
while  he  read  or  wrote ;  where  she  had  knelt 
before  him.  gazing  into  his  face  with  adoring 
eyes,  calling  him  her  angel,  her  saint,  and 
every  sweet  endearing  diminutive  her  lovely 
language  possessees.  There  was  the  little 
niche  in  the  wall,  with  the  ill-painted  Ma- 
donna, where  she  had  insisted  upon  having 
a  desk,  with  a  candle  and  prayer-book,  and 
a  crucifix  over  it,  before  which  she  knelt 
night  and  morning  in  her  loose  white  robes, 
her  small  brown  hands  clasped,  her  soft  eyes 
uplifted  to  the  image  of  the  suffering 
Saviour,  pleading  for;  forgiveness, —  she  who 
had  never  then  sinned. 

O,  how  the  remembrance  of  those  scenes 
lacerated  and  tore  the  heart  of  the  weary 
suffering  man  !  for  he  had  been  the  cause  of 
the  ruin  of  that  angel  of  purity ;  he  had  left 


her  unprotected  to  the  snares  of  a  villain. 
Where  was  she  now  ?  perhaps,  cast  of!  and 
forsaken,  she  had  sunk  lower  and  lower,  un- 
til neither  earth  nor  heaven  had  any  refuge 
for  her,  and  the  fair  face  and  glorious  eyes 
might  have  been  hidden  for  years  in  the 
darkness  and  dreariness  of  an  unknown 
grave.  Covering  his  face  with  his  hands, 
he  wept  long  and  bitterly ;  then  he  arose 
and  went  away,  like  one  who  had  taken 
the  last  look  of  an  idolized  being  before  the 
coffin-lid  closed  upon  it  forever.  Again  he 
walked  on  the  mournful  shores  where,  years 
before,  in  the  first,  fury  of  his  disappointed 
love,  he  had  poured  out  his  impotent  rage 
and  scorn  to  the  unheeding  sea.  Now  with 
a  profound  sadness  he  watched  the  continual 
succession  of  waves,  that  broke  one  after 
another  on  the  smooth  sand  with  a  fain-t 
murmuring  plaint  like  the  moajis  of  invisible 
sorrows.  "  Why  do  you  complain  and  mur- 
mur forever,"  he  thought,  —  "you  who  have 
the  strength  that  nothing  can  resist  ?  Even 
we  who  are  human  have  no  power  against 
you.  How  like  life !  how  like  fate !  We 
struggle  madly,  blindly,  against  our  desti- 
sies,  and  yet  the  waves  roll  on  and  on,  and 
we  cannot  stay  them  in  their  course,  neither 
can  we  resist  them." 

O  human  hearts  !  groping  like  wounded 
worms  in  the  dust,  with  a  blind  instinct  of 
pain^  why  in  your  maimed  and  helpless  as- 
pirations do  ye  not  look  to  the  great  Healer? 
His  balm  of  Gilead,  his  balsam  of  life, 
would  be  so  freely  poured  on  your  bleeding 
wounds. 

Kichard  Vandeleur  had  not  yet  that  faith 
in  the  unlimited  power,  in  the  unchangeable 
justice  and  goodness,  of  the  Father  who 
pities  us  in  our  weakness  and  folly,  —  that 
faith  which  leads  us  to  higher  and  nobler 
ends.' — that  faith  without  which  our  lives 
are  but  the  most  deplorable  of  all  decep- 
tions ;  still  he  was  blindly  groping  in  the 
darkness,  with  his  hands  before  his  face,  to- 
ward the  great  light,  which,  if  it  once 
beams  upon  our  souls,  drives  away  forever 
the  shadows  of  doubt  and  despair. 

Many  and  varied  weie,the  thoughts  that 
passed  through  his  mind  in  quick  succes- 
sion, as  he  stood  looking  out  on  the  sea, 
over  which  hung  a  dull  gray  sky.  Earth 
and  heaven  seemed  veiled  alike  in  a  cold 
neutral  tint,  and  always  distinct  from  the 
confusion  of  thought  sounded  those  words, 
"  Reparation,  reparation  "  The  waves  that 
broke  at  his  feet  seemed  to  demand  it ;  the 
wind  that  waved  the  boughs  of  a  dreary 
willow  and  moaned  among  the  branches  of 
a  pine  against  which  he  leaned,  the  sea- 
birds  with  slow  circles  and  plaintive  cries, 
took  up  the  refrain  and  repeated  it  over  and 
over.  The  memory  of  a  pair  of  dark  tender 
eyes  dimmed  with  tears,  a  face  glorious 
with  youth  and  beauty,  quivering  lips,  and 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


clinging  .hands  was  eloquent  with  the  same 
prayer. 

Then  a  solemn  phantom  seemed  to  pass 
before  him,  with  hollow  eyes,  in  which  the 
fires  of  life  and  passion  were  forever  ex- 
tinguished, —  a  face  white  and  worn,  lips 
on  which  no  smile  rested,  mournful  folded 
hands  over  an  immobile  breast,  —  a  ghastly 
contrast  to  that  incarnation  of  warm,  fresh, 
living  loveliness  he  had  known.  And  that 
phantom  seemed  to  cry  louder  and  more 
imperatively  than  all  the  voices  of  nature, 
"  Reparation  !  reparation  !  " 

"  O  my  Go;l  !  "  he  cried,  "  I  have  striven, 
and  I  will  still  strive.  I  will  give  myself 
neither  peace  nor  rest  until  I  know  some- 
tiling  of  her  fate." 

And  so  he  had  gone  on  through  every 
city  and  town  of  Italy,  often  discouraged, 
often  hopeless,  but  still  ever  seeking,  even 
when  he  felt  ic  was  a  useless  quest. 

He  had  returned  to  Florence  after  this 
weary  search,  worn  out  in  body  and  mind, 
yet  resolved  to  leave  immediately  for  Paris, 
hoping  there  to  find  some  clew  to  the  where- 
abouts of  De  Villiers.  That  seemed  to  be 
the  only  resource  left,  and  he  determined 
to  ac*  upon  it  at  once. 

But  at  that  time  a  malignant  fever  had 
been  raging  among  the  poor,  in  a  squalid, 
dirty  part  of  the  city,  where  few  foreigners 
dared  penetrate.  '-Here,"  he  thought,  "is 
something  for  me  to  do,  by  which  I  may 
make  some  atonement  foithe  past."  And  so 
for  several  weeks,  instead  of  starting  on  his 
intended  journey,  he  had  been  going  the 
rounds  of  the  infected  district,  a  very  angel 
of  mercy.  He  had  freely  given  food  and 
money,  and  procured  the  best  medical  ad- 
vice. He  had  watched  day  after  day  and 
night  after  night  by  the  bed  of  the  dying, 
giving  them  the  cooling  draught,  moistening 
the  parched  lips,  and  often  closing  with  his 
own  hands  the  eyes  that  had  ceased  to 
weep.  In  all  the  abodes  of  misery  the  pale 
solemn  face,  the  sad  but  kind  eyes,  the 
gentle  voice,  were  known  and  welcomed. 
But  now  the  crisis  of  the  epidemic  had 
passed,  already  there  was  a  change  for  the 
better,  and  again  he  decided  to  leave.  This 
evening,  after  writing  for  some  time,  he 
started  up  su  1  lenly  and  laid  down  his  pen, 
as  though  some  iie\v  resolution  had  taken 
possession  of  him. 

"  Have  I  been  insane  that  I  have  never 
thought  of  this  before  ?  Yes,  I  will  go  at 
once  to  Rome,  I  will  seek  for  her  father  and 
mother ;  she  may  have  returned  to  them,  — 
what  is  more  likely  ?  —  or  at  least,  if  she  has 
not  returned,  they  may  know  something  of 
her  fate.  Yes,  I  will  leave  in  the  morning. 
Now  I  must  go  to  see  my  sick  ;  I  must  know 
they  arc  provided  for  during  my  absence." 

He  took  a  basket  from  a  cloget,  filled 
with  wine  and  fruit,  and,  opening  his  desk, 


drew  from  a  roll  a  number  of  small   bills 

in  paper;  these  he  put  into  his  pocket-book, 
and,  taking  his  basket  and  cane,  started 
on  his  errand  of  mercv.  Le-iving  behind 
him  the  broad,  brilliantly  light  i-,l  Lim^' 
Arno,  he  crossed  the  Ponte  Yeeehin.  and 
entered  the  dark,  dreary  suburbs.  Passing 
through  a  narrow,  dirty  street,  he  saw  a 
wounded  dog  lying  on  the  pavement,  howling 
piteously.  Stooping  down,  he  took  the  dirty 
little  animal  in  his  arms,  and  carried  it  to  a 
butcher's  stall  near ;  on  examining  it,  he 
found  its  hind  legs  were  broken.  "  Poor 
thing !"  he  said,  with  genuine  pity  in  his 
voice,  as  lie  put  some  money  into  the  man's 
hand,  "take  care  of  it  until  it  is  well. 
Mind  you  take  care  of  it,  and  feed  it !  if  hot, 
I  shall  know  how  to  treat  you  when  I  sec 
you  again."  The  man  promised  readily, 
but  at  the  same  time  looked  with  bewildered 
astonishment  at  this  eccentric  person,  who 
could  care  for  the  sufferings  of  a  dog ;  and 
as  he  went  out,  the  butcher  muttered  to 
himself,  "  Ah,  this  must  be  the  forrnlicre 
who  has  been  so  good  to  the  sick.  May  the 
Madonna  and  all  the  saints  bless  him  ! " 

On  he  went  from  one  house  to  another, 
speaking  words  of  kindness  and  encourage- 
ment, giving  money,  wine,  or  bread,  as  they 
were  needed.  In  one  room  of  a  distressingly 
miserable  place  was  a  little  girl  of  eight  or 
nine  years,  who  had  been,  with  her  old 
grandmother,  just  to  the  verge  of  the  grave, 
but  both  had  now  turned  back  to  tread  a 
little  longer  the  paths  of  life,  —  one  with 
the  trembling  feet  of  age,  the  other  with 
the  unheeding  steps  of  childhood.  He  loved 
this  dark-eyed  child  ;  she  was  very  patient 
and  docile,  and  he  had  seen  her  often  during 
her  illness.  Now  he  leaned  over  the  mis- 
erable bed,  and  said  gently,  ".1  no  la  /n!<t,  I 
am  going  away  for  a  few  days.  I  have  come 
to  say  addlo,  and  you  must  be  quite  well 
when  I  return." 

The  child  threw  her  thin  arms  around  his 
neck,  and,  drawing  his  bearded  face  close  to 
hers,    she   murmured,  "  O   cam  >'////- 
love  you,  and  I  will   pray  to   the  blessed 
Madonna  to  bring  you  hack  quickly." 

The  tears  filled  his  eyes  and  fell  on  her 
pale  cheek  as  he  stooped  to  kiss  her:  then 
he  turned  away,  to  continue  his  work  of 
mercy  far  into  the  night. 

When  he  reached  his  room  he  threw  him- 
self into  an  arm-chair  weary  and  e.\h;i 
yet  feeling  he  had  done  a  little  to  lighten 
his   own   burden,  as   well   as   that  of  oth- 
ers. 

And  this  was  Richard  Vandeleur,  the  fas- 
tidious man  of  the  world,  the  giv  idler  in 
the  haunts  of  fashion  and  vice,  the  scoll'er, 
the  sceptic,  who  had  years  before  cea>eil  to 
believe  in  the  purity  of  any  motive,  that  in- 
fluenced the  heart. 

That   ni<2'ht  he  had  carried  a  wounded 


WOVEN"   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


dirty  animal  in  his  arms  from  pity,  and  had 
wept  over  the:  sick-bed  of  a  pauper. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

AM  I  WORTHY  TO  BE  TOUR  FRIEND  ? 

rpHERE  was  a  great  festa  in  St.  John 
J_  Lateran,  at  Borne,  that  beautiful  basilica 
which  stands  like  a  sentinel  before  the  gates, 
and  whose  marble  Christ  and  ten  Apostles 
seem  to  keep  watch  and  ward  over  the  great 
city,  wide  campagna,  and  distant  moun- 
tains. 

This  day,  over  all  the  long  flight  of  steps 
and  at  all  the  entrances  were  strewn  the 
odorous  box  and  bay,  and  all  the  doors  were 
hung  with  fluttering  silk  curtains  bordered 
with  gold,  and  around  all  the  massive  pil- 
lars were  twined  and  interlaced  festoons 
of  crimson  and  white.  Thousands  of  can- 
dles burned  before  the  altars,  and  flowers 
loaded  the  air  with  perfume.  Crowds  were 
passing  in,  from  the  magnificent  Roman 
princes,  with  their  liveried  lackeys,  to  the 
poorest  contadini,  —  all  received  alike  in  the 
temple  of  God. 

The  mass  of  people  swayed  back  and 
forth  as  the  guards  made  way  for  the  pro- 
cession of  cardinals,  bishops,  priests,  and 
then  the  Pope,  with  his  gorgeous  retinue. 
Guido  sang,  and  every  one  crowded  to  hear 
him.  In  fact,  he  went,  like  the  beloved 
Raphael  in  other  days,  followed  by  his 
throng  of  imitators  and  admirers.  All  the 
young  musicians  loved  him  and  copied  him ; 
he  was  now  far  above  those  who  had  envied 
him  in  the  early  days  of  his  career.  So 
friend  and  foe  bowed  alike  at  the  shrine 
where  the  world  worshipped. 

He  sansr,  with  all  the  pathos  of  his  won- 
derful voice,  that  touching  prayer,  — 

"  Signer,  pieti '.  se  ate  giunge  il  mio  pregar 
Non  mi  puuisca.  il  tuo  rigor." 

And  he  sang  with  the  same  power  that, 
nearly  two  hundred  years  before,  had  soft- 
ened the  hearts  and  changed  the  purpose 
of  the  assassins  who  had  entered  that  sacred 
edifice  to  take  the  life  of  the  unfortunate 
Stradella.  Even  as  the  crowd  were  then 
ready  to  fall  down  and  worship  that  ill-fated 
younjr  sincrer,  so  now  was  the  great  mass  of 
people  filled  with  tho  same  enthusiastic  de- 
light at  Guide's  marvellous  execution. 

Constance  sat  near  the  choir  with  her 
friends,  who  freely  expressed  their  admira- 
tion ;  but  she  said  nothing.  Her  face  was 
unusually  pale,  and  her  eyes  had  a  solemn 
expression,  blended  with  adoration,  as  she 
gazed  at  the  noble  form  of  the  young  singer. 
Sometimes  Guide's  eyes  would  meet  hers 
for  a  moment,  and  express  all  his  gratitude 
and  joy  at  her  evident  appreciation. 


It  was  through  music  their  souls  held  in- 
tercourse and  comprehended  each  other ; 
consequently  the  moments  she  listened  to  his 
voice  were  the  happiest  of  her  life. 

Before  one  of  the  altars,  surrounded  by 
several  nuns,  knelt  Sister  Agatha,  rapt  in 
a  sort  of  trance  as  she  listened  to  Guide's 
voice  and  at  the  same  time  looked  on  the 
pictured  Christ  in  the  last  agony  of  his 
mortal  struggle.  She  was  paler,  older,  and 
more  worn,  but  still  the  same  placid  face 
beamed  under  the  stiff  white  cap  and  black 
serge  veil.  She  was  no  longer  in  the  camera 
della  rota  at  Santo  Spirito,  for  when  the 
sisterhood  of  the  Sacre  Ctxur  established 
their  convent  in  the  Villa  Lanti,  the  position 
of  mother  assistant  had  been  piven  her,  —  a 
more  honorable  position  than  that  which  she 
held  at  Santo  Spirito,  but  cften  she  longed 
for  the  -old  wards,  and  the  baby  faces,  and 
the  Warm  little  living  hands  that  strayed 
over  her  face  and  clung  around  her  neck. 
She  had  a  woman's  heart,  this  poor  nun ; 
at d  her  life  there  afforded  her  some  outlet 
for  the  tender  feelings,  that  cannot  be  turned 
inward  to  feed  upon  self,  or  even  be  given 
all  to  God.  Her  life  now  was  colder,  more 
austere,  mere  dignified,  but  less  satisfactory. 
She  still  loved  Guido  with  the,  same  deep 
affection,  which  she  never  could  quite  un- 
derstand. In  spite  of  all  her  prayers  to  the 
Madonna  to  remove  it  from  her  heart  if  it 
were  unlawful,  it  still  flourished  as  green 
and  fresh  as  on  the  night  when  he  first  smiled 
in  her  face  under  the  shadow  cf  Santo 
Spirito.  For  the  Santa  Madre  was  a  wo- 
man and  loved  her  dear  son,  and  wept,  and 
fainted  at  the  cross,  as  any  earthly  mother 
would  have  done  to  see  her  dear  child 
suffering  the  agonies  cf  death.  And  Sister  ' 
Agatha  loved  Guido  as  a  child,  ar.d  so  the 
dear  Madonna  did  cot  wither  or  crush  this 
affection,  but  left  it  to  grow,  and  blossom, 
and  bring  forth  fruit. 

And  Filomena  was  there  listening,  with  all 
her  heart  in  her  eyes,  to  the  divine  voice 
of  il  caro  maestro.  She  was  no  longer  the 
poor  dejected  creature  who  had  brought 
him  under  her  shawl  back  to  Santo  Spirito, 
weeping  bitterly  because  she  was  too  poor  to 
keep  him.  Now  she  was  well  dressed  and 
healthy,  and  if  it  had  rot  been  for  the  red 
stain  on  her  cheek  she  would  not  have  been 
ill-looking.  As  it  was,  she  had  the  air  of 
one  well  satisfied  with  the  world ;  but,  if 
you  examined  her  face  moie  closely,  there 
was  an  expression  which  told  plainly  that 
she  was  not  altogether  satisfied  with  herself. 

Near  her  stood  a  tall,  bearded  man,  who 
scarcely  removed  his  eyes  from  her,  and, 
whichever  way  she  turned,  he  too  turned 
in  the  samo  direction,  as  if  to  keep  her  al- 
ways in  sight. 

When  the  service  was  finished  and  the 
people  passed  out,  he  followed  close 


WOVEN   OF   MANY   THREADS. 


behind  her,  until  they  gained  the  piazza, 
where  the  crowd  was  not  so  dense ;  then  he 
advanced  to  her  side,  and  said,  in  a  voice 
slightly  tremulous,  "  Your  name  is  Filome- 
na,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  starting  and  turning 
pale  ;  "  but  why  do  you  wish  to  know  V  " 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you ;  when 
and  where  can  I  see  you  ?  " 

"  To-night,  at  my  house,  if  you  wish  " ; 
and  she  added  tho  street  and  number. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  "  I  will  be  there  at 
seven  " ;  and,  without  adding  another  word, 
he  turned  away. 

"  lie  brings  me  some  news  of  my  child, 
my  Mona,"  said  the  poor  mother,  following 
him  with  her  CVLS.  "  O,  if  God  has  but  put 
it  into  her  heart  to  acknowledge  her  poor 
parents,  it  will  be  a  happy  day  for  my  Be- 
nedetto and  me  !  I  am  sure  it'sheoeuld  see 
us,  how  our  condition  is  chanrtpa,  she 
would  be  no  longer  ashamed  of  us.  But  eld 
sa  ?  perhaps  it  is  the  good  news  he  has  come 
to  bring  us." 

At  ceven  o'clock,  punctually,  some  one 
rang.  Filomena  opened  the  door,  and  there 
stood  the  stranger.  She  invited  him  into 
her  little  room,  closed  the  door,  offered  him  ; 
a  seat,  and  then  stood  before  him,  trem- 
blingly, waiting  for  him  to  speak. 

"  Do  you  not  know  me  ?  "  he  said,  after  a  ! 
moment's  pause,  stroking  his  beard  slowly, 
and  looking  her  steadily  in  the  face. 

"  No,  no,"  —  with  a  puzzled  ah*,  returning 
his  penetrating  gaze,  —  "  and  yet  your  eyes 
are  familiar.  But  0  Signor  mio  I "  she 
cried,  cla  -ping  her  hands,  "  tell  me  if  you 
have  any  news  of  my  child." 

A  sudden  pallor  passed  over  his  face,  and  I 
then  he  said,  "  Do  you  remember  the  £ 
re  Inylene,  who  lived  ten  years  ago  in  the  I 
palace  where  your  husband  was  porter  ?  " 

"  0  Dio  mio  .'  I  do  remember  him.  He  it 
was  who  robbed  ns  of  our  child,  curses  on 
him!" 

"Hush!  hush!  I  am  he;  it  was  I  who 
took  her  from  you ;  and  now  I  am  come  to 
you  to  learn  something  of  her." 

"  You  ?  "  she  cried,  starting  back.  "  Nev- 
er !  never !  But  where  is  my  child  ?  "  and 
the  woman  advanced  toward  him  and  shook 
her  clenched  hand  menacingly  in  his  face, 
while  her  black  eyes  and  the  crimson  stain 
on  her  die' I:  !>urned  like  fire.  "Tell  me 
quickly,  —  tell  me  what  have  you  done  with 
my  child  ?  Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  taking  her 
hands  and  forcm:;  her  gently  into  a  chair. 
"Becalm,  I  implore  you;  1  have  much  to 
say  to  you ;  be  calm,  and  listen  to  me." 

"  You,  the  villain  who  has  robbed  me  of 
my  only  child!  —  you  tell  me  to  be  calm. 
Ah,  you  do  not  know  a  mother's  heart,  i  will 
have  your  life's  blood  if  you  do  not  bring 
back  my  child." 

8 


"  O,  hush  !  I  beseech  you  !  If  you  will 
not  listen  to  me,  I  can  do  nothing,"  he  said, 
in  a  sad,  discouraged  voice.  "  Jt  is  true,  I 
deserve  all  your  reproaches,  all  your  indig- 
nation and  anger ;  but  that  cannot  undo 
what  has  been  done.  I  wish  now  to  make 
all  the  reparation  in  my  power,  if  it  is  not 
too  late.  Listen,  while  1  tell  you  all,  and 
then,  perhaps,  you  may  pity  me." 

His  humble,  sad  voice  touched  the  not 
unfeeling  heart  of  the  woman,  and  seemed 
to  subdue  her  fury.  She  buried  her  lace  in 
her  hands,  and  waited  in  silence  lor  him  to 
begin. 

Then  he  told  her  all,  from  the  hour  of 
the  false  marriage  to  the  last  effort  he  had 
made  at  Pescara,  a  few  weeks  before.  She 
often  interrupted  him  during  the  recital 
with  cries  of  auger,  indignation,  and  sor- 
row, and  exclamations  of  "  O  ji;/li" 
mingled  with  sobs  and  curses  on  her  seducer. 

"  And  you  have  heard  nothing  from  her?  " 
he  inquired,  wistfully,  when  he  had  fin- 
ished. 

"  Nothing !  she  has  been  dead  to  us  since 
the  night  she  left  us.  Shortly  after,  we  re- 
ceived a  large  sum  of  money,  and  since,  at 
different  times,  smaller  amounts;  so  we 
knew  it  must  come  from  our  child ;  and  we 
thought  she  was  rich  and  happy,  but  did 
not  wish  to  come  back  because  she  was 
a>ha-ned  of  her  poor,  ignorant  parents." 

"  I  sent  the  money,"  he  said ;  "  first  at 
her  suggestion,  and  after  because  I  wished 
in  some  way  to  atone  for  my  sin.  Did  you 
think  she  had  married  the  man  she  had  fled 
with  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  I  who  knew  the  pure,  in- 
nocent heart  of  my  child,  and  the  strength 
of  her  virtue,  knew,  also,  that  nothing  would 
induce  her  to  listen  to  any  other  proposal : 
and  you,  who  had  had  the  sxre  'test  proof  of 
her  purity,  how  could  you  doubt  her  because 
one  whom  you  knew  to  be  a  villain  de- 
ceived you?  O  man,  blind,  stupid,  hive 
you  not  yet  learned  to  know  that  there 
has  been  some  fearful  wroirj;  in  all  tb«is  ? 
My  child  was  innocent ;  I  know  it  as  well 
as  though  she  told  me  so  before  the  face  of 
the  Madonna.  That  bad  man  in  whose  care 
you  left  her  has  Icvcivcd  you  and  wi- 
the ruin  of  both  !  "  and,  covering  her 
she  rocked  to  and  fro  as  though  a  mighty 
wind  had  passed  over  her,  always  moaning, 
"  O  my  poor  child,  you  aiv  io  for- 

ever !     I  know  that  nothing  but  death  could 
keep  you  from  your  mother's  he-ir;  I  " 

"  Patience,  patience,  my  poor  friend  !  "  he 
said,  gently  taking  her  livmblin:  hands  in 
liis;  -let  us  still  seek  her.  tru-tin'_'  in  (lod 
to  aid  us,  and  if  we  find  her,  and  she  is 
free,  she  shall  be  my  wife,  honored  ami  be- 
loved, and  you  may  yet  b  •  happy  with  your 
child.  I  cann;)l  think  die  i-  «1  ad  ;  neither 
can  I  now  believe  she  is  with  that  man.  O, 


58 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


I  had  hoped  that  in  all  these  years  you 
uii-lil  have  heard  something  from  her  !  " 

"I  will  serk  i'or  her  im>elt,"  said  Filo- 
mena;  "  the  heart  of  a  mother  will  lead  me 
to  her.  Yes,  to-morrow  J  will  begin  my 
search,  and  1  will  not  rest  until  I  find  her. 
I  forgive  you,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand 
heav'ilv  on  his  shoulder,  —  "1  Ibrgive  you,  but 
on  the"  condition  that  if  I  discover  my  child, 
and  she  is  free,  you  will  at  once  make  her 
your  wife." 

''  1  swear  it,"  he  said,  starting  up,  with  a 
new  light  in  his  eyes  ;  li  the  hour  I  can  make 
that  reparation  will  be  my  first  hour  of  true 
peace  since  I  committed  that  crime." 

"  We  all  have  sinned,"  said  the  woman, 
and  a  strange  expression  passed  over  her 
face ;  "  and  every  sin  brings  its  punishment, 
but  every  sin  is  not  a  crime.  For  this,  no 
reparation  can  be  too  great." 

"  Jt  is  true  ;  your  words  are  just,  and  I  de- 
serve your  bitterest  reproaches ;  but  all 
that  human  power  can  do  I  will  do  to  atone 
for  this  great  wrong.  You  know  how  I 
have  sinned ;  but  God  only  knows  how  I 
have  suffered." 

The  woman's  face  softened,  and  she  said 
gently,  "  Pazienza,  and  we  will  hope  for  the 
best." 

Richard  Vandeleur  arose,  and,  taking  a 
roll  of  bank-notes  from  his  pocket,  he  laid 
them  on  the  table  with  a  card,  saying,  "  Use 
this  in  your  search,  and  spare  no  expense.  I 
shall  leave  here  directly  for  Paris,  where  I 
hope  to  learn  something  of  De  Villicrs. 
Here  is  my  address ;  if  you  have  anything 
to  communicate,  write  to  me  at  once." 

He  opened  the  door  to  go,  when  the  voice 
of  some  one  singing  in  an  adjoining  room 
fell  upon  his  ear ;  he  started,  turned  pale, 
and  inquired  almost  breathlessly  who  it  was. 

"  It  is  a  young  English  lady,  the  Signo- 
rina  Wilbrcham,"  replied  Filomena. 

Without  a  word  he  stepped  toward  the 
door.  It  was  ajar,  and  he  entered.  Con- 
stance was  alone  in  the  salon,  and  at  the 
piano.  When  she  saw  this  tall,  bearded 
man  in  the  door,  she  arose,  and  came  for- 
ward to  know  his  wishes.  Suddenly  she 
stopped,  arrested  by  his  eyes,  whose  ex- 
;:iv>Mon  she  always  remembered.  She 
leaned  with  one  hand  on  the  back  of  a  chair, 
and,  holding  out  the  other,  said,  calmly, 
"  This  is  a  surprise,  Mr.  Vandeleur,  but  you 
arc  nevertheless  welcome." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  replied ;  "  I  heard  your 
voice,  and  I  could  not  resist  the  desire  to 
speak  with  you." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  have  the  opportunity." 
She  spoke  calmly  and  truthfully.  She  could 
meet  tin-  man  without  emotion,  whom  she 
had  parted  from  but  a  year  and  a  half 
before  nearly  brokeq-hearted.  "  I  thought 
you  were  in  the  East,"  she  continued. 

"I  returned  some  months  ago."    And 


then,  sitting  down  by  her  side,  as  an  old 
fiiend  after  a  long  parting,  he  recounted  to 
her  all  his  wanderings,  his  useless  quest, 
his  bitter  disappointment  at  the  interview 
with  Filomena,  and  his  resolves  for  the  fu- 
ture. Then,  holding  out  his  hand,  he  said, 
with  a  grave  smile,  "  And  now  am  I  wor- 
thy to  be  your  friend  ?  " 

She  took  the  proflered  hand  in  both  hers, 
and,  looking  into  his  eyes  that  beamed  with 
calm  friendship,  she  replied,  "  Yes,  yes,  and 
this  is  the  most  satisfactory  moment  of  my 
life.  I  have  thought  of  you,  and  prayed 
for  you,  that  you  might  see  your  duty  and 
perform  it ;  and  in  the  trying  are  you  not 
happier  ?  Do  you  not  find  that  your  abne- 
gation of  self  is  bringing  its  rew;,r<l." 

"In  a  measure,"  he  replied  s-okmnly; 
"  but  I  can  know  no  real  peace  until  I  have 
made  ofcue  reparation." 

"  Yon  are  (iohig  all  you  can.  <  'n.<\  is  mer- 
ciful ;  •§-  will  accept  the  ardent  desire  for 
the  fulfilment.  Trust  in  him,  and  the  peace 
will  ccme  in  his  own  time." 

"  And  you,"  he  inquired,  looking  earnest- 
ly into  her  face,  —  "  are  you  happy  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes  !  as  happy  as  I  can  be  without 
my  dear  father.  You,  who  knew  him,  can 
understand  what  I  have  lost."  She  spoke 
of  his  death  with  tearful  eyes,  then  of  her 
new  home,  her  different  pursuits,  her  vari- 
ous engagements,  but  never  a  word  of  that 
episode  in  their  lives,  the  strange  discovery 
on  that  dull  September  day,  that  had  led  to 
such  unexpected  results.  Then  they  had 
parted  with  bleeding  hearts,  each  to  take  up 
separately  the  burden  of  life  which  they  had 
thought  to  bear  together ;  neither  daring  to 
pray  to  see  again  the  face  of  the  other, 
only  feeling  a  strong  conviction  that  they 
must  put  distance  between  them,  and  leave 
to  Time,  the  great  healer,  to  cure  the  wounds 
that  Fate  had  made. 

Scarcely  a  year  and  a  half  had  passed,  and 
they  had  met,  but  not  as  either  expected,  in 
a  foreign  land,  each  with  a  separate  purpose 
in  their  lives. 

O,  how  inscrutable  is  the  destiny  that 
ever  goes  before  us  with  veiled  face  1  It  is 
well  for  us  that  the  veil  is  never  drawn 
aside,  for  what  is  hidden  is  not  to  be  re- 
vealed until  our  journey  is  done  and  the 
shadows  fall  behind. 

When  Madame  Landel  entered  the  salon, 
she  could  scarcely  conceal  her  surprise  at 
finding  Mr.  Vandeleur  and  Constance  sit- 
ting side  by  side,  and  talking  as  calmly  as 
friends  who  had  met  after  a  day's  parting. 

"  I  find  y<yu  so  much  changed  I  hardly 
recognized  you,"  she  said,  after  a  rather 
troubled  greeting. 

"  Yes,  I  am  changed,"  ho  replied,  a  little 
sadly.  "Exposure  to  burning  Eastern  euns 
and  desert  life  does  not  improve  one's 
looks." 


WOVEN   OF   MANY   THREADS. 


After  a  few  remarks  on  indifferent  mat- 
ters he  arose  to  take  leave,  saying  he  must 
start  for  Florence  in  the  ten  o'clock  train. 

"  Then  you  do  not  remain  in  Rome,"  ex- 
claimed Madame  Landel,  with  some  surprise 
in  her  voice. 

No,  1  have  work  that  calls  me  away.  I 
am  no  longer  an  idler,"  he  said,  with  a  sad 
smile,  as  he  shook  hands.  "  You  may  see 
me  again  later  in  the  season." 

Constance  looked  after  him,  as  he  left  the 
room,  with  a  mournful  presentiment  that  she 
should  see  him  no  more  as  then.  Her 
thoughts  were  prophetic.  Poor  heart !  No- 
ble to  the  last,  he  found  peace,  but  only 
when  the  wing  of  the  white  angel  had 
waved  over  him. 


\  AT  F  ? 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

WAS   IT   POVERTY  OR   SHAME 

THE  next  morning  after  her  interview 
with  Mr.  Vandeleur,  Filomena  entered 
the  room  of  Guido.  Her  face  was  very 
pale,  and  her  eyes  red  and  swollen  from  a 
sleepless  night  and  almost  constant  weep- 
ing. 

Guido  was  writing,  but  he  started  up,  and, 
giving  her  a  chair,  inquired  anxiously  the 
cause  of  her  trouble.  He  had  always  felt 
for  the  woman  a  sort  of  affection  and  re- 
spect, and  had  ever  listened  patiently  to 
the  recital  of  every  sorrow  or  annoyance, 
advising  and  sympathizing  with  her  in  the 
most  tender  manner.  Indeed,  she  looked 
upon  him  as  an  oracle,  and  whatever  he 
suggested  she  immediately  acted  upon, 
believing  implicitly  it  was  best  in  every 
•way. 

This  morning,  before  beginning  her  story, 
she  began  sobbing;  so  it  was  necessary  to 
use  all  sorts  of  gentle  words  to  calm  and 
console  her.  After  the  first  burst  of  pas- 
sionate grief  she  became  more  quiet,  and  re- 
cited intelligibly  all  the  details  of  her  inter- 
view with  Mr.  Vandeleur. 

Guido  could  not  refrain  from  expressing 
his  deep  indignation  at  the  great  wrong 
that  had  been  practised  upon  the  innocent 
girl,  and  his  real  grief  at  her  uncertain 
fate.  He  had  grown,  like  her  parents,  to 
think  of  her  as  the  wife  of  the  rich  English- 
man, living  somewhere  in  luxury,  happy 
and  respected.  And  now  this  news  changed 
all.  If  the  poor  wanderer  were  still  alive, 
where  was  she,  and  in  what  position  ? 

'•  Yes,"  he  said,  after  a  few  moments'  deep 
thought,  —  "  yes,  she  must  be  found,  and 
you  are  the  one  to  seek  for  her.  Begin  at 
once,  and  my  prayers  and  best  wishes  go 
with  you.  If  you  need  me,  you  have  but  to 
say  so,  and  I  am  ready  to  assist  you  in  any 


way  possible.  And  this  cruel,  base  English- 
man, can  God  let  him  go  uiipuni-li^ilV" 
Guido' s  cheek  flushed,  and  the  old  fire  of 
San  Michelc  shot  from  his  eyes.  "  Curse 
him  !  If  I  could  name  his  expiation,  it  should 
be  bitter  to  endure." 

"  Hush,jiylio  mio  I "  said  Filomena.  "  He 
has  been  punished  by  much  suffering.  Re- 
morse and  regret  are  stamped  on  every  line 
of  his  worn  face.  I,  her  mother,  pitied  him 
so  that  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to 
curse  him  when  I  had  heard  "his  story. 
And  he  loves  her,  he  loves  her  yet;  after 
all  these  years,  he  pines  to  look  upon  her 
face." 

"  Enough,"  said  Guido.  "  If  he  has  suf- 
fered, I  forgive  him.  I,  also,  pity  every  one 
that  suffers."  Then  he  gave  her  many  direc- 
tions in  regard  to  her  search,  counselled  and 
encouraged  her,  telling  her  to  let  him  know 
from  time  to  time  of  her  progress,  and,  bid- 
ding her  "  God  speed,"  they  parted. 

After  she  had  gone,  he  sat  long  in  an  at- 
titude of  deep  dejection  and  painful  thought. 
His  face  was  pale  and  worn,  his  eyes  heavy 
and  sad ;  in  fact,  his  whole  appearance  be- 
tokened a  fierce  mental  struggle.  Since 
the  day  of  the  visit  to  the  fountain  of 
Egeria,  nearly  a  month  before,  he  had  been 
miserable.  He  saw  at  once  that  all  his  fu- 
ture happiness  depended  upon  his  driving 
this  passion  from  his  heart.  It  must  be 
done  with  a  firm,  unflinching  will.  He 
believed  he  had  strength  to  do  it.  But  he 
had  not  yet  learned  the  power  of  love. 
Before  he  had  known  Conetance  he  had 
been  comparatively  contented  vdth  his  lot, 
happy  in  his  devotion  to  his  beloved  art, 
and  believing  life  had  nothing  more  in 
store  for  him  than  the  every-day  duties 
that  devolved  upon  him.  lie  had  thought 
little  of  love,  and  never  dreamed  of  mar- 
riage, because  he  had  never  loved.  And 
he  had  never  loved,  because  the  being  to 
call  forth  that  passion  in  the  pure,  devout 
heart  of  the  young  man  had  never  until 
then  crossed  his  path.  Now  an  uncontrol- 
lable fate  had  brought  them  together. 
Their  souls,  created  for  each  oth'.rr,  had 
recognized  the  truth,  and  demanded  impera- 
tively that  union  of  all  others  the  holiest. 
But  Guido  dared  not  tell  his  love,  be- 
cause the  barriers  that  separated  them 
seemed  to  him  impassable.  Fir^t,  his  situa- 
tion in  the  service  of  the  Pope  was  held 
under  vows  of  celibacy.  If  he  mnrrii'd, 
he  must  renounce  it.  Then  his  poverty, 
and,  more  insurmountable  than  all,  his  ob- 
scure birth,  and  the  evident  dishonor  at- 
tached to  it.  All  this  he  understood  and 
felt  as  he  never  had  before ;  and  the  more 
he  thought,  the  more  he  felt  how  impossible 
it,  wns  that  Constance  could  return  his  love. 
And  if  she  could,  would  not  her  pride  re- 
volt against  such  a  union  ?  For  hours  in  the 


60 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


F ilence  of  the  night,  and  during  the  occupa- 
tions of  the  day,  he  brooded  over  these 
difficulties  until  his  spirits  and  healti:  were 
seriously  affected.  Then,  sometimes,  he 
would  think,  almost  joyfully,  if  this  mystery 
attending  his  hirth  could  be  explained  the 
other  obstacles  might  be  surmounted.  For 
something  in  his  heart  told  him  this  girl 
loved  him,  and  when  she  loved,  no  worldly 
interest  could  keep  her  from  the  man  to 
whom  she  had  given  her  heart.  "  For  her," 
he  thought,  "  I  could  resign  my  much  cov- 
eted position,  could  leave  my  dear  Italy, 
and  make  for  myself  an  honorable  career  in 
some  other  land ;  and  then  I  could  ask  her 
to  share  my  lot.  If  I  could  but  penetrate 
this  mystery,  and  know  at  least  that  I  was 
not  the  fruit  of  sin.  But  O,  it  is  impos- 
sible !  I  have  no  means,  no  power,  to  bring 
to  light  this  secret  hidden  by  time  and 
silence." 

One  day  Sister  Agatha  sat  alone  in  her 
little  private  room  in  the  convent  of  the 
Sacre  Cceur.  She  looked  sad  and  old,  but 
placid  and  patient.  Before  her,  on  a  table, 
were  a  number  of  papers,  which  she  was 
busily  assorting  and  arranging.  There  was 
a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Guido  entered. 
Throwing  his  broad-brimmed  hat  on  a  chair 
with  a  gesture  of  irritation  and  impatience, 
altogether  unlike  his  gentfe  manner,  he  fell 
on  his  knees  before  the  nun,  and,  burying 
his  face  in  his  hands,  he  cried  out  in  sharp, 
passionate  tone?,  "  0  madre  mia,  I  am  so 
miserable !  I  cannot  endure  this  suffering 
any  longer ;  I  am  come  to  thee  for  consola- 
tion." 

Sister  Agatha  gently  drew  his  hands 
from  his  face,  and,  pushing  back  the  soft 
hair  from  his  forehead,  she  looked  long  and 
anxiously  into  his  eyes,  saying  all  the  virile, 
"  Guido  mio,  thou  must  not  forget  that  I  am 
human,  and  can  do  very  little  for  thee ;  I 
love  thee  and  pity  thee,  but  it  is  to  the 
Mother  of  God,  the  Blessed  Virgin,  thou 
must  carry  thy  sorrow.  Remember,  my 
child,  that  it  is  she  alone  who,  by  her 
merciful  intercession,  can  aid  thee." 

"  Ah !  I  know  that,  my  mother,  I  know 
all  that ;  but  this  sorrow  is  something  re- 
ligion cannot  cure,"  he  replied,  with  more 
irreverence  in  his  voice  than  she  had  ever 
heard  before. 

She  looked  surprised,  and  somewhat 
grieved,  but  she  continued  gently,  never- 
theless, •'  My  Guido  knows  it  is  only  the  Ma- 
donna who  can  help  him ;  but  tell  me  thy 
trouble,  and  I  will  pray  to  our  Blessed  Lady 
for  thee." 

Then  Guido,  with  bowed  head  and 
softened  voice,  told  her  of  his  love  for  Con- 
stance, its  hopelessness,  and  his  dcspiir. 

"  Poor  boy  1 "  she  said  tenderly,  when  he 
had  finished,  "I  pity  thee;  but  "thou  must 
have  patience,  and  if  she  loves  thee  she  will 


ignore  these  circumstances  that  separate 
thee  from  her.  Perhaps  I  should  say  to 
thee  that  love  and  marriage  arc  not  thy 
highest  calling,  that  thy  life  should  Lo  en- 
tirely consecrated  to  God  and  the  Holy 
Mother  ;  but  I  cannot,  no,  I  cannot.  If  thou 
lovest  with  the  true  and  pure  love  that 
comes  from  God,  it  is  thy  vocation  to  ac- 
cept it.  The  holy  passion  that  he  hath 
given  thee  should  not  be  chilled  or  crushed. 
And  if  it  is  meant  only  for  discipline,  it  is 
because  thou  hast  need  of  it,  and  he  will  in 
time  remove  thy  idol  and  gently  draw  thy 
suffering  heart  to  him,  to  teach  thee  with 
pain  and  chastening  that  his  love  is  better 
than  earthly  passion.  My  Guido  must  look 
at  it  in  this  way,  and  then  whatever  comes 
will  be  best." 

the  soft  eyes  of  the  nun ; 
of  her  youth  returned 
her,  —  her  girlish  passion  for  her 
lover ;  those  eyes  that  were  so 
soon  disliked  iu  death:  li;;;t.  sn.iii.!  of  infi- 
nite sweetness  that  even  now,  after  all 
these  years,  sometimes  came  between  her 
and  her  prayers ;  her  wild  agony  when 
they  were  parted;  her  despair,  her  hope- 
lessness ;  her  renunciation  of  the  wcrld,  to 
enter  her  living  tomb;  the  weeks,  months, 
and  years  of  struggling  to  tear  his  memory 
frcni  her  heart,  that  she  might  give  it  all  to 
God,  bleeding  and  lacerated  though  it  was. 

Guido  remained  lost  in  thought  for  a 
few  moments,  and  then,  clasping  bis  hands, 
while  the  tears  fell  from  his  eyes,  he  cried, 
"  No,  no,  I  cannot  be  resigned  to  lose 
her.  I  have  never  but  half  lived  until  she 
smiled  upon  me.  If  I  must  be  separated 
from  her  forever,  life  is  finished  for  me. 
Henceforth  there  is  nothing  but  elaikness 
and  despair."  The  nun  clasped  his  hands 
in  hers,  and  pressed  her  pale  lips  to  them 
without  a  word.  What  more  could  she 
say? 

"  But, my  mo'Jier,"  continued  Guido,  with 
eagerness  in  his  voice,  "  is  there  no  way  I 
can  fathom  the  mystery  that  envelopes  my 
birth  ?  If  I  could  but  know  I  was  abandoned 
from  poverty,  and  not  shame,  I  would  not 
fear  to  ask  for  her  love.  Tell  me  what  you 
believe ;  was  it  poverty  or  shame  ?  " 

"  It  was  not  poverty,  my  Guido,"  replied 
the  nun,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  am  sure  you 
came  of  gentle  parents.  Look!"  And,  open- 
ing a  drawer  in  a  cabinet,  she  took  there- 
from a  bundle  of  baby-linen,  on  which  was 
fastened  a  card  bearing  the  number  36, 
and  the  date  October  23.  The  linen  was 
of  the  most  costly  fabric,  trimmed  with  deli- 
cate lace  and  embroidery.  ';  Look/'  she 
said,  "these  were  upon  thee  when  they 
brought  thee  to  Santo  Spirito.  A  child  of 
poverty  could  not  be  swathed  in  such  fine 
linen." 

"Then,"  cried  the   young  man,  with  a 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


Gl 


groan  of  agony,  "  it  could  only  have  been 
shame  that  caused  the  concealment  of  my 
birth.     It  is  useless  ;    we  are  separated  for- 
ever; I  cannot  struggle  against  the  destiny  j 
that  overwhelms  me.     I  must  keep  silent, ! 
I  must  never  tell  her  of  my  love ;  and  then  j 
what  is  there  in  life  for  me  ?    Nothing.    My  | 
art  has  lost  the  power  to  console  me,  my  | 
religion  —  ah !    she  is  my  idol,  my  saint ; 
when   I   count   my  rosary  and  repeat  my 
paternosters,  her  face  comes  between  me  and 
the  Madonna." 

"  Guido,"  said  the  nun,  sternly,  "  thy 
words  are  almost  blasphemy.  Go  to  the 
nearest  church,  and  there  on  your  knees  be- 
fore the  image  of  the  suffer  ing  Christ,  pray 
for  pardon.  Remember  we  are  not  chil- 
dren whom  the  blessed  Lord  bribes  to  good- 
,nes3  by  the  promise  of  some  desired  object. 
Be  good  and  patient  first,  and  the  Madonna 
will  intercede  for  thee,  that  thy  reward  may 
be  given  thee." 

Guido  took  the  nun's  hand,  and  pressing 
it  reverently  to  his  lips,  and  murmuring 
some  half-inaudible  promises  of  penitence 
and  prayer,  he  went  away  with  bowed  head 
and  gloomy  brow,  like  the  poor  wretches 
who  left  the  chamber  of  the  Council  of  Ten 
to  cross  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  to  the  prison  of 
condemnation ;  for  to  him  hope  had  fled, 
the  death-warrant  to  his  happiness  had  been 
signed,  and  was  he  not  doomed  to  a  greater 
suffering  than  the  axe  of  the  executioner  or 
the  rest  and  forgetfulness  of  the  grave  ? 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

LET   ME    LIVE   IN   THE   PRESENT. 

NE  evening,  Constance  and  Mrs.  Tre- 
maine  sat  by  the  drawing-room  fire, 
chatting  on  all  sorts  of  subjects.  The  Prince 
and  Mr.  Carnegie  had  just  left,  and  Madame 
Landel  had  gone  to  her  room  with  a  head- 
ache. 

Helen  had  been  in  the  most  brilliant  flow 
of  spirits  all  the  evening.  She  had  sung, 
laughed,  and  talked  with  increasing  vivaci- 
ty, while  both  the  Prince  and  Mr.  Carnegie 
had  been  unusually  sad  and  abstracted. 

To  Constance,  Helen  was  an  enigma 
which  she  in  vain  tried  to  solve.  And  now, 
as  she  leaned  back  in  an  arm-chair,  her  gold- 
en hah*  pushed  away  from  her  forehead,  her 
feet  on  the  fender,  and  her  arms  lazily  folded, 
her  gayety  seemed  in  no  whit  to  abate. 
Her  eyes  sparkled,  and  the  red  spot  burned 
on  her  cheek  with  an  almost  feverish  bright- 
ness. Was  she  acting  a  part?  I  do  not 
know,  I  cannot  declare ;  but  from  what  oc- 
curred afterwards,  one  might  say  she  was. 

"  I  wonder  why  Signer  Guido  never  comes 
now  in  the  evening,"  she  said.  "  You  know 


there  was  a  time  he  came  nearly  always,  and 
now  I  never  see  him,  except  when  I  steal  in 
at  the  end  of  your  lessons.  And  then  he 
looks  so  pale  and  melancholy,  —  he  certainly 
is  quite  changed  these  few  weeks  pa-t.  I 
think  he  must  be  in  love  with  one  of  us,  and 
is  determined  to  keep  out  of  temptation.  I 
wonder  which  it  is,  for  I  am  sure  he  is  in 
love ;  I  never  mistake  the  signs.  I  think  it 
must  be  you,  dear,  for  I  am  certain  I  never 
would  suit  him,  I  am  much  too  wicked." 

Constance  colored  a  little,  but  laughed 
and  said,  "I  think  he  is  too  wise  to  fall  in 
love  with  either  of  us,  and  besides  you  for- 
get he  is  quite  the  same  as  a  priest."  And 
then,  to  change  the  subject,  "  But  what  was 
the  matter  with  the  Prince  to-night  ?  He  cer- 
tainly seemed  quite  depressed,  —  an  unusual 
thing  for  him." 

"  Did  he,  indeed  ?  I  did  not  observe  it," 
replied  Helen.  "  I  suppose  his  affairs  are 
not  in  ti  very  prosperous  condition.  Lady 
Charlotte  told  me  to-day  that  he  had  offered 
his  most  valuable  picture  for  sale,  a  splendid 
Giorgione.  Fancy  a  prince  so  poor  that  he 
is  obliged  to  sell  his  family  pictures  1 " 

"  Helen,  you  will  not  be  displeased  if  I 
ask  you  a  question  ?  "  said  Constance,  after 
a  few  moments'  thought. 

"  No,  indeed ;  ask  as  many  as  you  wish, 
only  don't  lecture. 

"  Do  you  love  the  Prince  ?  Because  you 
know,  dear,  he  must  marry  an  heiress,  and  is 
it  right  to  go  on  in  this  way  if  you  can  never 
be  his  wife?'"  Constance  sat  on  a  low 
ottoman  at  her  friend's  side,  and  as  she 
spoke  she  took  one  of  the  white  hands  and 
pressed  it  gently  to  her  cheek,  looking  ear- 
nestly into  the  inscrutable  blue  eyes,  bent  in 
mock  gravity  upon  her.  "  Tell  me,  do  you 
love  the  Prince  ?  " 

"  I  love  him  ?  yes,  certainly ;  but  I  sup- 
pose I  have  loved  twenty  others  in  the  same 
way.  How  can  I  tell  whether  this  is  the 
divine  passion  or  not  ?  " 

"  O  Helen  !  do  not  speak  lightly  of  this ; 
I  am  sure  we  love  but  once." 

"Nonsense,  moonshine,  stuff'!  we  love  as 
often  as  we  meet  any  one  simpatico,  as  the 
Italians  say.  Why,  only  fancy,  —  vulgar  lit- 
tle wretch  that  I  was !  —  when  I  was  twelve 
years  old  I  was  madly  in  love  with  the  butch- 
er's boy,  —  an  urchin  a  little  older  than  my- 
self, so  fat,  with  rosy  cheeks,  curly  hair,  and 
black  eyes.  And  how  do  you  think  this  grace- 
ful creature  expressed  the  first  budding  of  the 
tender  passion  ?  Why,  by  bringing  me  pigs' 
tails,  which  the  cook  secretly  roasted  for  me 
in  the  ashes ;  and  I  can  assure  you  it  v>  as 
food  fit  for  the  gods,  for  at  that  period  I  was 
always  hungry.  One  day  mamma  entered 
the  kitchen  unawares, and  caught  him  surrep- 
titiously slipping  a  fine  large  pig's  tail  into 
my  apron,  which  he  had  stolen  from  his 
master  as  a  love-offering  to  me.  My  surprise 


G2 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


and  confusion  were  terrible  when  mamma, 
with  a  not  very  gentle  shake,  ordered  me  to 
the  nursery,  threw  the  delicious  morsel  into 
the  sink,  exclaiming  '  Nasty  thing ! '  and  told 
the  butcher's  boy  never  to  show  his  rosy 
visage  on  her  premises  again.  Would  you 
believe  it !  I  cried  for  several  days  and 
nights  for  the  loss  of  my  dark-eyed  cherub, 
or  the  savory  pigs'  tails,  —  I  don't  remember 
which." 

Constance  could  not  refrain  from  laugh- 
ing a  little,  but  she  said  very  gravely,  "  Dear 
Helen,  don't  turn  this  subject  into  ridi- 
cule. 1  am  sure  you  do  not  mean  what  you 
say." 

"  I  quite  mean  it,"  she  replied,  smiling 
mischievously.  "  My  own  experience  teaches 
me  the  instability  of  the  tender  passion. 
And  then  how  one's  taste  changes  !  My 
first  love  was  fat  and  rosy.  Then  there 
succeeded  a  liking  for  pale  slim  lads  with 
long  hair,  —  lawyers'  clerks  and  apothe- 
caries' apprentices.  When  I  was  sixteen 
nothing  pleased  me  but  fast,  distingue  young 
men,  who  sported  gold  chains,  diamond 
studs,  and  eye-glasses,  —  who  simpered  and 
bowed  and  grinned,  and  twisted  their  mus- 
taches. Then  a  little  later,  I  thought  all 
middle-aged  men  divine  ;  those  who  wore 
mourning  hat-bands  and  black  gloves,  — 
scholarly-looking,  melancholy  individuals, 
whom  I  always  fancied  1  o  be  poets  that  the 
world  did  not  appreciate.  I  doted  on  gray 
hair,  and  grizzled  beard,  and  declared  I 
would  rather  be  an  old  man's  darling  than 
the  remainder  of  the  proverb.  Now  that  I 
have  arrived  at  the  age  of  discretion,  with 
all  these  experiences  to  teach  me,  how  can 
I  believe  in  the  stability  of  love  ?  " 

"  Then  you  have  never  loved,  dear,"  said 
Constance,  softly,  and  with  a  slight  blush. 
"  If  you  had,  you  would  know  that  all  the 
preferences  of  which  you  have  spoken  are 
nothing  but  a  girl's  foolish  fancies.  But  I 
believe  the  experience  must  come  to  us  all 
once  in  a  life.  If  you  have  escaped,  it  will 
come  later,  and  then  you  will  believe  what 
I  say  to  be  true  ;  but,  Helen,  if  you  do  not 
love  the  Prince,  is  it  right  to  show  such  a 
decider!  preference  for  his  society  ?  One  can 
see  his  heart  is  all  yours ;  how  can  you  trifle 
with  him  so  ?  " 

"  Trifle  with  him  !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
sudden  burst  of  emotion,  covering  her  face 
with  4mr  hand?,  —  "  trifle  with  him  !  Good 
Heavens !  cannot  you  see  how  madly,  how 
entirely,  I  love  him  ?  " 

';  Hush,  dear,"  said  Constance,  tenderly, 
"  let  us  talk  of  this  calmly.  I  have  always 
believed  you  loved  him,  but  your  own  words 
contradicted  your  actions.  Do  you  under- 
stand each  other  ?  Does  he  know  you  love 
him  ?  " 

"  Certainly  he  knows  it,  and  he  also 
knows  how  hopeless  our  future  is,  poor 


darling !  It  is  for  that  he  is  so  sad,  it  is  for 
that  he  is  almost  in  despair." 

"  Why, "  said  Constance,  "  when  you 
have  known  from  the  first  the  utter  hope- 
lessness of  this  love, — why  have  you  encour- 
aged it  ?  and  is  it  not  better  now  to  break 
off  at  once  all  intercourse,  and  try  by  every 
means  possible  to  forget  him  ?  " 

"  To  forget  him  !  Never  !  If  forgetting 
him  would  save  me  from  years  of  torment, 
I  would  not  forget  him  for  one  moment ; 
neither  will  I  separate  myself  from  him  one 
hour  sooner  than  is  absolutely  necessary. 
No,  no,  do  not  preach.  Let  me  live  in  the 
present ;  there  is  no  future  for  me  ;  all  that 
will  come  after  can  be  nothing  but  a  desolate 
blank.  The  only  joy  that  can  -vivify  it  will 
be  the  remembrance  of  these  hours  you  so 
coolly  advise  me  to  give  up.  I  know  wa 
must  part,  and  part '  orever.  I  know  it  well. 
1  have  known  it  from  the  mcmcnt  we  first 
met ;  yet  1  would  rather  give  twenty  years 
of  my  life  than  never  to  have  seen  him,  or 
than  to  lose  one  hour  of  the  present." 
She  spoke  very  calmly  now,  and  her  eyes 
were  dimmed  with  tears  and  tender  sadness. 
"  Yes,  I  have  been  happy ;  I  have  known 
the  bliss  of  loving  and  being  loved.  What 
does  it  matter  i?  we  lose  a  few  years  of 
the  future  ?  We  shall  meet,  and  live,  1  trust, 
forever  in  eternity.  I  think  God  permits 
us  to  carry  with  us  to  paradise  some  sweet 
memory  of  earth,  to  show  us  what  Eden  was 
before  the  fall.  This  precious  memory  will 
be  mine.  I  cannot  expect  a  lifetime  of 
such  bliss.  It  is  not  allowed  to  mortals. 
In  a  lew  weeks  I  have  enjoyed  more  of 
happiness  than  is  given  to  most  lives  ;  there- 
fore, darling,  I  cannot  complain.  It  is  best 
as  it  is ;  we  have  met  and  loved,  and  we 
must  part ;  the  future,"  —  a  light  shiver 
passed  over  her,  and  she  turned  deadly 
pale,  —  "  it  may  be  dreary,  but  it  cannot  be 
long.  I  know  it  cannot  be  long.  Prisoners 
die  sometimes  for  need  of  light.  It  will  be 
so  with  me.  I  cannot  live  in  darkness.  But 
I  shall  be  contented  if  I  may  die  in  his 
arms,  and  be  the  first  to  welcome  him  to 
eternal  love." 

"  Forgive  me,  dear,"  said  Constance,  with 
tearful  eyes,  —  "  forgive  me  ;  for  I  bavc  not 
understood  you.  I  have  not  known  how  good 
and  patient  you  are.  But  why,  if  you  love 
each  other  with  such  fervor  and  strength, 
is  it  imperative  that  you  should  part? 
What  does  it  matter  if  you  are  not  rich? 
You  can  be  happy  together  if  the  Prince 
does  not  regain  the  palaces  of  his  ancestors. 
Do  not  speak  so  sadly ;  I  am  sure  all  will 
yet  be  well." 

"  No,  no,  dear/'  gently  laying  her  fingers 
on  the  lips  of  Constance,  "  you  must  not 
speak  of  it.  I  shall  never  be  his  wife  ;  it 
cannot  be.  I  shall  always  love  him,  and 
that  will  be  enough  for  me.  But  let  me  live 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


in  the  present ;  God  will  take  care  of  the 
future.  It  is  one  o'clock,"  she  said,  looking 
at  her  watch,  "  we  must  go  to  bed ;  indeed, 
I  am  very  happy  with  his  love  and  your 
friendship  and  sympathy,  and  I  cannot  be 
altogether  miserable."  Then,  smiling  half 
sadly  and  halt'  sweetly,  she  said  "good 
night,"  and,  taking  her  candle,  left  the 
room. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  RETREAT  OF  A  SUFFERING  HEART. 

GUIDO  had  invited  them  all  to  accom- 
pany him  to  Sant'  Onolrio,  the  retreat 


tors,  as  judges,  as  sculptors,  as  painters,  as 
poets. 

"  What  had  become  of  that  enthusiasm 
which  was  the  soul  of  the  Jerusalem  De- 
livered? It  was  gone.  Adieu  to  that  living 
fire,  that  spirit  of  joy,  which  the  poet,  in  love 
with  liis  own  work,  imparts  to  all  his  crea- 
tions. To  what  penitence  the  Church  made 
his  genius  submit !  That  muse,  by  turns  so 
human  and  so  celestial,  —  that  muse,  which 
knew  how  to  take  every  tone  and  unite 
them  in  one  delicious  harmony,  —  that  muse 
which  painted  with  words  of  fire  the  fever  of 
love  and  the  accents  of  peace  and  gentle- 
ness, the  presence  of  God  in  the  heart  of  the 
just, — must  expiate  the  crime  it  had  com- 
mitted by  repeating  upon  its  lyre  all  the 


of  the  heart-broken  Tasso,  when,  weary  of  I  songs  of  the  soul.     And  for  daring  to  find 


the  world  and  its  injustice,  mourning  for  the 
loss  of  his  beloved  Leonora,  ill  in  body  and 
mind,  he  entered  to  leave  no  more  the  place 
he  had  chosen  of  all  others  in  which  to 
pass  peacefully  the  remainder  of  his  sad  life. 
They  first  visited  the  church,  and  looked 
upon  the  tomb  where  rests  all  that  was  inor 
tal  of  the  great  poet.  Under  a  gorgeous 
monument,  above  which  his  statue,  with 
youthful,  earnest  face,  ever  looks  up,  as  if 
seeking  Divine  inspiration,  lies  the  heart 
that  so  longed  for  the  rest  of  death.  The 
weary,  tormented  soul,  the  restless  spirit, 
tlia  mortal  languor,  the  deceit  and  vanity  of 
all  things,  the  coriuptiou  of  the  flesh,  the 
weakness  and  insufficiency  of  human  rea- 


son, the  power  of  the  prince  of  darkness, 
and  the  belief  in  the  anger  of  an  avenging 
God,  all  weighed  heavily  on  the  suffer- 
ing, sensitive  heart,  until  they  crushed  and 
consumed  it. 

"  He   was   a  great    poet."   said    Guido, 

sadly,  "  but  a  most  unhappy  man.     Toward  . 

the  close  of  his  life  he  sank  into  a  state  of  j  joyed  neither.  They  could  not  sink  to  the 
deplorable  religious  fanaticism.  He  main  j  world,  because  they  were  not  of  it ;  nor 
tained  that  all  systems  and  all  thoughts  of  j  could  they  mount  to  heaven,  because  the 
the  human  heart  are  but  a  long  succession  '  wings  that  desired  to  rise  were  borne  down 
of  contradictions.  His  essay  on  Idols  bears  j  by  the  weight  of  day." 


something  of  God  in  the  clay  of  which  our 
passions  are  moulded,  penitent  sinner,  see 
him  pass  before  us,  uncrowned,  his  head 
covered  with  ashes,  hiding  his  captive  wings 
under  the  sackcloth." 

"  Why  is  it,"  said  Constance,  "  that  great 
genius  is  so  often  at  war  with  the  simplicity 
of  life  ?  Does  God  design,  when  he  clothes 
it  with  common  clay,  that  it  should  forget 
its  humanity  and  aspire  to  be  equal  with 
the  Creator  ?  Has  not  an  unlawful  ambition 
been  too  often  the  cause  of  suffering  to 
these  great  hearts  ?  " 

"  They  saw  more  than  we,"  replied 
Guido.  "  They  sometimes  penetrated  into 
the  sublime  mysteries  of  the  soul ;  they 


wrapped  themselves  in  a  mantle  not  alto- 
gether woven  of  the.  common  woof  of  earth, 
and  which  shrank  tremblingly  away  from 
the  incongruities  of  life ;  and  the  nearer 
they  approached  the  divine,  the  more  the 
mortal  combated  with  what  it  could  not 
resist.  So  they  in  their  dual  existence  en- 


the  seal  of  the  most  sombre  asceticism. 
He  condemns  all  the  poems  that  cannot  be 
accepted  by  the  Church.  He  says  idolaters 
are  those  poets  who  give  place  in  their 
verse  to  the  gods  of  Olympus  :  idolaters  are 


Ah,  Signor  Guido,"  said  the  Prince, 
who  stood  near  with  Mrs.  Trcmaine  on  his 
arm,  "  your  theory  is  very  pretty.  But  it 
is 


my  belief  that  half  their  sorrows  were 
imaginary.     I  dare  say,  on  the  whole,  they 

they  who  sing  of  love,  —  the  most  guilty  of,  were  a  set  of  jolly  old  fellows.  Look  at 
idolaters;  and  he  confesses  that  he  himself  Byron  and  Shakespeare,  for  example, — 
was  in  other  times  an  idolater,  for  all  souls  your  greatest  poets,  Miss  Wilbreham  ;  they 
that  are  attached  to  earth  are  temples  con-  did  not  disdain  to  partake  of  the  comnmn 
secrated  to  idols.  Idolaters,  again,  are  j  enjoyments  of  life,  nor  to  take  deep 
they  who  search  for  swift  dogs  for  the  chase,  j  draughts  from  the  cups  of  illicit  plea-nre.  I 
to  pursue  and  worry  their  prey,  and  those  must  say  that  I  am  astonished  myself  that 
who  desire  noble  horses  to  shine  in  the  men  who,  by  the  power  of  their  gi 
tournament,  —  those  who  love  the  birds  of  j  might  have  aspired  to  the  purity  or'  an-els, 
song,  the  gardens  and  the  palaces,  the  mur-  .-h .mid  have  so  trailed  their  wings  in  the, 
muring  waters  and  the  flowery  hills,  the 


precious  cloths,  the  perfumes  of  Arabia,  the 


mire  of  earth." 

"  Yet  we  know,"  replied  Constant. 

stones  of  the  Orient  ;*  idolaters  are  those  who  j  they  were  at  times  the  prey  of  a  devour- 
aspire  to  be  admired,  as  councillors,  as  doc- 1  ing  melancholy." 


WOVEN  OF  MANY  THREADS. 


"You  have  talked  here  long  enough," 
said  Mrs.  Tremaine.  "  Let  us  go  into  the 
garden ;  I  wish  to  see  the  oak  under  which 
Tasso  loved  to  sit  during  the  last  days  of 
his  deplorable  life." 

"  Is  it  a  legend  that  the  veritable  oak  of 
Tasso  was  destroyed  by  lightning  ?  "  in- 
quired Madame  Landel  of  Guido. 

"  I  cannot  say  ;  but  I  suppose  it  matters 
little.  We  know  in  these  gardens  the  poet 
has  walked  with  trembling  steps,  the  fever 
in  his  veins  and  the  pallor  of  death  upon 
bis  lips.  He  has  rested  under  the  shade  of 
the  tree? ;  and  from  this  hill  has  contem- 
plated, for  the  last  time,  the  Eternal  City." 

It  was  near  sunset  when  they  crossed  the 
church,  and  entered  the  cloister  surrounded 
by  graceful  antique  columns,  sad,  and  gray, 
and  moss-covered.  From  these  they  passed 
through  a  wicket  gate  into  the  garden. 
Nothing  could  be  more  simple  and  rustic 
than  that  rather,  small  enclosure,  situated 
upon  the  summit  of  the  Janiculum,  —  a  field 
of  tomatoes,  a  few  vines  and  fig-trees,  an 
ancient  fountain,  with  moss-covered  basin, 
shaded  by  roses  and  laurel. 

The  slight  murmur  of  a  little  rivulet,  hid- 
den entirely  by  the  wild  tangled  grass, 
flows  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  that  rises  sud- 
denly and  is  surrounded  by  a  mound  of 
turf.  Near  the  convent  is  a  grotto,  the  en- 
trance to  which  is  covered  by  shrubs  and 
vines,  and  above  a  niche  ornamented  with 
a  broken  urn.  Here  everything  is  left  to 
desolation.  The  wild  fern  and  acanthus 
grow  undisturbed,  the  ivy,  nettle,  and 
thistle  entangled  with  a  fantastic  vine  that 
runs  over  all. 

On  the  side  of  the  hill  that  overlooks 
Rome  is  a  small  hemicycle  of  stone,  sur- 
rounded by  a  row  of  cypresses.  It  is  there 
that  Filippo  Neri  assembled  his  young 
pupils  and  taught  them  a  style  of  church 
music  entirely  new,  —  those  sacred  works 
called  Oratorios.  At  the  foot  of  the  ter- 
race is  a  little  wall  in  ruin,  and  on  the  left 
rises  the  enormous  trunk  of  the  oak  of 
Tasso.  Ah,  what  a  picture  was  spread  out 
before  the  eyes  of  the  divine  poet !  At  the 
right  the  long  circle  of  the  Janiculum,  with 
Trartavere  at  its  feet ;  its  gardens,  its  vine- 
yards, and  its  terraces  crowned  with 
churches.  At  the  base  the  Aventine,  that 
descends  suddenly  to  the  Tiber,  whose  course 
can  scarcely  be  seen  save  by  the  long  line 
of  houses,  high,  narrow,  irregular,  and  yel- 
low as  the  water  that  bathes  their  feet, 
pierced  with  little  deep  windows  from  which 
flutter,  like  banners,  rags  of  many  colors. 
Beyond  is  Rome, — immense;  from  the 
Piazza  del  Popolo  to  the  pyramid  of  Ces- 
tus  !  —  Rome,  with  its  tiled  roofs  covered 
with  faded  and  yellow  moss,  —  Rome,  with  its 
splendors  that  nothing  can  equal,  superbly 
towering  above  all,  its  domes  and  cupolas 


:  painted  with  dusky  gold  ;  and,  far  beyond, 
the  shady  heights  of  the  Pincio,  the  gardens 
of  Sallust,  and  the  long  verdant  ravine  that 
separates  the  Quirinal  from  the  Esquilin, 
overshadowed  by  Santa  Maria  Magaicre. 
Nearer,  the  tower  of  the  Capitol,  the  Pala- 
tine with  its  cypresses,  myrtles,  and  pome- 
granates trailing  their  abundant  foliage 
over  the  immense  arches  of  the  ruined  pal- 
aces of  the  Ceesars.  The  deserted  Aventine, 
with  its  solitary  churches  surrounded  by 
stunted  olives ;  the  Coelian,  with  its  long 
sweep,  terminated  by  the  sublime  basilica 
of  St.  John  Lateran.  In  spite  of  the  dis- 
tance, one  could  see  outlined  against  the  sky 
the  statues  that  surmount  it.  In  the  limpid 
air  they  seemed  like  spirits  who  had  poised 
there  a  moment  to  take  breath  before  their 
flight  to  heaven.  Farther  away  the  cam- 
pnyna,  one  long  undulating  sweep,  destitute 
of  all  verdure,  save  here  and  there  a  hoary 
pine ;  and  farther  still  the  Alban  Moun- 
tains, bathed  in  purple  light.  Then  the 
faint  outline  of  the  Sabincs,  their  summits 
lost  in  the  hazy  atmosphere.  Turning, 
one  sees  Mount  Vatican,  St.  Peter's,  a  row 
of  pines  designed  upon  a  gorgeous  sunset 
sky,  the  fig-trees  and  aloes  impregnated 
with  a  golden  dust,  and  nearer  the  fountain, 
a  mass  of  liquid  silver,  on  which  trembles 
long  rays  of  rosy  lights. 

"  Let  us  sit  at  the  foot  of  the  oak,"  said 
Guido,  "  and  fancy  Tasso  is  sitting  here 
with  us,  pale  and  trembling  with  fever.  '  To- 

!  night,'  he  says,  '  I  shall  go  to  bed  never  to 
rise  again.  I  will  look  now  at  Rome  for 
the  last  time.  There  is  the  palace  of  Monte 
Giordiano,  where  I  lived  in  my  early  youth  ; 
r.nd  beyond,  the  convent  of  Santa  Maria 
del  'Popolo,  the  asylum  opened  to  my  old 

I  age.      Without    the    aid    of    those     good 

|  brothers  I  should  have  died  of  hunger 
long  ago.  Behind  me  is  the  Vatican, 
where  I  have  passed  many  hours  of  mortal 
anxiety,  always  to  be  disappointed.  Here 
is  the  Capitol,  where  they  prepared  my 
crown,  —  a  preparation,  alas  !  useless.  The 
fever  that  devours  me  had  told  too  much. 
Ah  !  I  will  turn  my  eyes  from  that  city 
where  I  have  so  suffered,  and  contemplate 
the  mountains,  the  supreme  ornament  of 
that  vast  picture.  They  communicate  to  the 
soul  infinite  aspirations  mixed  with  the 
sweetness  of  eternal  repose.  That  repose 
begins  for  me.  I  have  a  foretaste  of  it. 
I  feel  the  overshadowing  of  ineffable  peace.' " 
All  were  silent  for  some  moments,  lost,  in 
thought,  or  contemplating  the  lovely  scene 
•with  mingled  feelings  of  melancholy  and 
admiration. 

Then  the  Prince  said,  "  If  I  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  be  a  poet,  I  should  not  seek  an 
asylum  here,  lest  the  memory  of  the  unhappy 
Tasso  should  work  the  same  disorder  in  me. 
I  believe  his  diseased  mind  magnified  trifling 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


C5 


ills  into  great  realities,  and  that  exaltation 
was  accompanied  by  an  access  of  fever  and 
delirium,  until,  weakened  by  his  own  vio- 
lences, the  spirit  of  revolt  gave  place  to 
meek  resignation.  If  I  should  write  his  elegy, 
I  should  conclude  it  in  these  words:  <T<i>so 
owed  one  Inlf  of  his  misfortunes  to  the 
weakness  of  his  character,  and  the  other  half 
to  the  beauty  of  his  genius.'  " 

As  the  Prince  finished,  a  monk  approached 
to  tell  them  it  was  Ave  Maria,  and  time  to 
close  the  gates.  They  gave  a  lingering  look 
at  the  lovely  scene,  and  then  slowly  walked 
down  the  silent  garden,  and  by  the  sombre 
cloister,  —  out  from  the  retreat  of  a  suffering 
heart  into  the  gay,  glad  world. 

Once  Constance  found  herself  near  Guido, 
who  certainly  had  avoided  her  of  late.  She 
glanced  timidly  into  his  face.  It  was  sad 
and  gloomy,  and  he  no  longer  met  her  eyes 
with  that  tender  intelligence  that  had  been 
so  dear  to  her. 

As  they  descended  the  long  steep  hill  to 
the  carriage,  Guido  looked  back  at  the  sol- 
emn pile,  growing  darker  and  more  solemn 
in  the  gathering  twilight,  and  said,  "  All  is 
calm  and  tranquil  there.  How  unlike  the 
strife  and  discord,  the  restless  passions,  of 
the  world !  I  think  a  little  later,  when  I 
have  grown  entirely  weary  of  life,  I  too  shall 
seek  a  refuge  there.  Some  people  are  barn 
at  strife  with  happiness.  I  am  one.  Mel- 
ancholy has  been  my  inseparable  companion. 
The  future  has  nothing  to  give  me  either  of 
love,  honor,  or  happiness.  Such  a  retreat 
would-  at  least  be  a  tranquil  ending  to  a 
weary  life." 

"  O  Signor  Guido ! "  she  returned  ear- 
nestly, "  you  mistrust  your  own  power.  God 
has  given  you  a  wonderful  talent  by  which 
you  may  win  honor.  The  future  is  yours  to 
make  yourself  a  noble  career,  if  you  will. 
Why  do  you  speak  so  despondingly  ?  " 

"  Because  I  have  no  motive,  no  aim,  to 
make  me  ambitious.  I  am  alone  in  the 
world,  and  there  is  none  to  care  whether  I 
rise  or  fall.  We  cease  to  desire  distinction 
when  there  is  no  one  to  share  our  honor." 

He  spoke  more  bitterly  than  she  had  ever 
heard  him.  And  it  was  his  first  reference 
in  any  way  to  himself.  She  longed  lo  say 
soine'hing  comforting  to  him,  but  they  had 
reached  the  carriage,  and  there  was  no  op- 
portunity. Neither  she  nor  Guido  took  any 
part  in  the  conversation  during  the  drive 
home.  Both  seemed  immersed  in  deep 
thought. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  CHARITY  OF  THE  WORLD. 

"  \^7HERE  is  SiSnor  Bernardo  ?  "  said  a 
T  T     tall,  thin  lady,  with  a  sharp  nose, 
and  a  little  crimson  line  for  lips,  to  anothcr- 
9 


distressingly  fat,  with  nez  retrousse,  and  shag- 
gy eyebrows,  from  under  which  po-re  1  a  pair 
of  hard  steel-gray  eyes.  "  How  is  it  ?  lie 
used  to  be  your  chevalier  at  all  the  concerts, 
and  I  never  see  him  now." 

It  was  in  the  concert-room  of  the  Sala  di 
Dante  that  the  thin  lady  a-kcd  this  question 
of  the  fat  friend  at  her  i-ide.  And  Constance, 
with  Madame  Landel,  occupied  the  seat 
directly  behind,  while  Mrs.  Tremaine,  the 
Prince,  and  Mr.  Carnegie  sat  a  few  seats  in 
front  of  them.  For  the  room  was  well  filled 
when  they  arrived,  and  it  was  impossible  to 
find  places  together. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  fat  lady,  in  a 
coarse,  vulgar  voice,  "  but  I  suppose  he  is 
dangling  after  that  English  girl  they  say  he 
is  in  love  with.  The  rest  of  her  party  are 
here,  and  she  is  not  with  them.  It  is  more 
than  likely  she  has  stayed  at  home  to  enter- 
tain her  lover !  " 

"  Who  are  her  party  ?  " 

"  Why,  do  you  not  know  the  yellow-haired 
woman  that  all  Rome  is  talking  of,  with  her 
two  lovers,  —  the  Prince  Conti,  and  that 
stiff  Scotchman,  Carnegie  ?  They  are  al- 
ways together." 

"  All !  this  lady  in  the  pearl  satin,  in  the 
third  seat  in  front  of  us,  between  the  Prince 
and  Mr.  Carnegie  ?  " 

"Yes,  that  is  the  lovely  Mrs.  Tremaine 
that  all  the  world  is  raving  about.  But  is 
n't  it  shocking  the  way  she  goes  on  with 
Conti  ?  Every  one  knows  he  will  never 
marry  her,  and  yet  they  make  no  secret  of 
their  preference,  but  go  into  society  openly, 
as  though  they  did  not  care  what  the  world 
thought." 

"  She  is  very  lovely,  certainly,"  observed 
the  thin  lady.  "  But  who  is  she  ?  Is  she 
one  of  the  Tremaines  of  Sussex  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Nobody  knows  much 
about  her.  But  I  believe  she  is  of  com- 
mon family,  and,  besides,  she  his  a  hus- 
band living  from  whom  she  is  divorced,  or 
something  of  that  sort.  I  dare  say  it  was 
her  fault.  Her  manners  are  not  those  of  a 
proper  person." 

"  But  she  goes  into  good  society,  does  she 
not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly.  Though  I  was  told  the 
other  day  that  Lady  Laura  Cavendish 
turned  her  back  upon  her  at  ail  assembly.'' 

"  Lady  Laura  Cavendish !  Well,  that  is 
too  good.  It  was  not  more  than  a  year  a'jjo 
that  the  Queen  refused  to  receive  her  at  her 
drawing-rooms.  Well,  such  people  usually 
take  the  initiative  in  these  matters.  How- 
ever, they  should  remember  the  old  proverb 
about  those  whtf  live  in  glass  houses*  Bui 
what  did  Mrs.  Tremaine  say  ?  " 

"  O,  nothing !  She  tossed  her  hf-ad, 
laughed,  took  the  arm  of  Conti,  and  walked 
off.  But  hear  how  Conti  took  his  revenue. 
You  know  ho  is  a  great  friend  of  the  Bor- 


G6 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


ghese  princes.  So  when  they  gave  their 
grand  ball  Lady  Laura  was  not  invited,  — 
about  the  only  foreigner  of  any  note  who  was 
left  out.  She  was  furious  with  rage.  But  this 
Mrs.  Tremaine  was  there  in  all  her  glory, 
and  received  the  most  marked  attention 
from  the  Prince  and  Madame  the  Princess. 
Of  course,  people  do  not  like  to  offend  Conti, 
so  that  is  the  reason  she  is  tolerated.  But 
it  is  a  reproach  on  respectable  families  to 
receive  such  a  person." 

"  And  her  friend,  the  girl  Signer  Guido  is 
in  love  with,  is  she  pretty  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  seen  her,  but  I  have  been 
told  she  is  one  of  the  pale,  interesting  beau- 
ties. Just  the  face  to  catch  such  a  silly  fellow." 

"  And  her  family  ?  " 

"  She  is  a  clergyman's  daughter  at  Helms- 
ford.  You  remember  Vandeleur?  Well, 
Helmsford  is  his  estate.  And  I  have  it 
from  the  best  authority  that  he  was  en- 
gaged to  marry  this  girl,  and  that  on  the 
very  eve  of  the  wedding  he  went  away  and 
left  her,  without  a  word  of  explanation  to 
any  one.  So  you  see  she  is  not  above  re- 
proach. However,  I  don't  care  for  that ; 
but  is  n't  it  too  tiresome,  when  I  have  done 
so  much  for  that  young  man,  that  he  is  so 
ungrateful  ?  Just  now,  when  I  need  him 
to  make  my  musical  soirees  attractive,  he 
keeps  away,  and  nothing  will  induce  him  to 
sing.  It  is  always  the  way.  I  am  so  tired  of 
patronizing  artists ;  for  as  soon  as  they  find 
themselves  in  the  position  I  have  helped 
them-to  attain,  they  directly  forget  they  owe 
anything  to  me,  and  affect  airs  of  indepen- 
dence that  are  absolutely  intolerable." 

"  But  do  you  really  think  this  girl  is  in 
love  with  him  ?  " 

"  They  say  he  is  always  with  her.  I  know 
no  more  than  that ;  but,  for  a  certainty,  no 
well-bred  young  English  lady  should  encour- 
age her  music-master,  especially  when  he  is 
under  the  rigorous  rules  of  a  priest.  And 
that  is  not  the  worst ;  his  birth  would  surely 
prevent  any  one  from  marrying  him.  You 
have  heard  the  story?  Illegitimate,  you 
know,  and  a  foundling." 

Constance  turned  deadly  pale  and  looked 
imploringly  at  Madame  Landel,  while  she 
whispered,  "  Let  us  go,  I  can  endure  this  no 
longer." 

,      "  It  is  impossible,  my  dear;  we  must  not 
leave  Mrs.  Tremaine.  '  Attend  to  the  music, 
and  do  not  listen  to  such  ill-bred  people, 
,  who  ought  to  remember  that  some  one  be- 
sides themselves  may  understand  English." 

Just  then  a  celebrated  pianist  began 
Beethoven's  seventh  symphony,  and  they 
forgot  their  scandal  to  listen. 

Guido  met  them  in  the  dressing-room, 
after  the  concert  was  over.  A  reception  at 
the  Cardinal  Catrucci's  had  prevented  him 
from  coming  before.  He  hurried  forward  to 
assist  Constance  in  putting  on  her  cloak,  but 


she,  without  looking  at  him,  turned  toward 
Mr.  Carnegie.  At  that  moment  the fat  and  the 
thin  woman  entered  the  room.  Guido  went 
to  speak  with  them,  and  Constance  said  to  Mr. 
Carnegie,  as  he  put  on  her  cloak,  "  Can  you 
tell  me  who  that  lady  in  the  yellow  satin  is  ?  " 

"  O,  that  is  Mrs.  Parlby,  the  widow  of  a 
Manchester  cotton-merchant.  She  is  very 
rich,  lives  in  a  splendid  palace,  keeps  liv- 
eried servants,  and  is  a  powerful  patroness 
of  Signer  Guido.  She  is  intensely  vulgar. 
Indeed,  it  is  said  she  was  one  of  the  factory 
spinners,  whom  the  old  merchant  educated, 
and  then  married.  Whether  that  be  true 
or  not,  there  is  one  thing  certain,  she  is  not 
a  lady  ;  and  I  would  rather  fall  lace  down- 
ward into  a  nest  of  wasps  than  to  incur  her 
dislike,  for  she  stings  without  mercy." 

"1  am  sure  she  does,"  replied  Constance, 
"  from  some  remarks  I  have  just  overheard. 
But  let  us  hurry.  I  do  not  wi:>h  her  to  see 
me  in  the  company  of  Signor  Bernardo." 

She  went  home  with  a  sick  and  weary 
heart.  When  she  reached  her  room,  she 
sat  down  to  think  over  what  she  had  heard. 
And  so  her  name  was  already  coupled  with 
his.  People  had  spoken  lightly  of  her  in 
connection  with  this  unfortunate  young  man. 
Illegitimate!  how  terrible  the  word  seemed 
to  her  !  That  accounted  for  the  silence  in 
regard  to  his  family  and  past  history  which 
they  had  often  noticed  and  spoken  of.  But 
she  could  not  blame  him  that  he  had  never 
told  her.  He  had  never  tried  lo  win  her 
love.  He  had  never  by  word  professed  any 
attachment  for  her.  It  was  true,  during  the 
first  days  of  their  acquaintance,  they  had 
been  almost  constantly  together.  And  then 
his  looks;  those  thousand  unspoken  evi- 
dences of  affection ;  and  that  day  when  he 
had  sheltered  her  from  the  storm,  under  his 
mantle,  —  that  brief  moment,  —  could  she 
ever  forget  the  tumultuous  beating  of  his 
heart  ?  The  memory  of  it  now  maddened 
her.  Yes,  he  had  loved  her  then.  Suddenly 
she  understood  it  all,  and  something  like  a 
thrill  of  joy  shot  through  her  heart.  He 
loved  her,  but  the  disgrace  of  his  birth  pre- 
vented him  from  confessing  his  love.  Poor, 
brave,  noble  heart !  He  was  trying,  by 
coldness  and  indifference,  to  deceive  him- 
self and  her.  That  explained  his  sadness, 
his  sudden  change  of  manner.  "  Poor  soul !  " 
she  murmured,  "  poor,  sad,  unhappy  heart ! 
why  has  fate  placed  such  barriers  between 
us  ?  O,  if  it  were  but  anything  else,  — 
poverty  or  humble  lineage  !  But  this  is  im- 
possible ;  I  must  forget  him.  It  is  madness  to 
think  of  him.  It  is  useless  for  me  to  dream 
of  happiness,  1  am  never  to  be  happy." 

Then  the  memory  of  that  dull  September 
day  crossed  her  heart  with  a  pang.  "  So 
the  world  knows  that  secret  of  my  life ;  and 
how  charitable  it  is  in  the  construction  it 
puts  upon  our  separation  !  It  is  well ;  God 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


67 


knows  all,  and  judges  us  more  mercifully 
than  our  fellow-creatures.  I  thought  then 
the  wound' I  had  received  would  never  heal. 
But  it  has  healed ;  and  this  will  too,  I  sup- 
pose, if  I  can  only  wait.  But  I  am  so  tired, 
—  in  fact,  I  have  been  tired  all  my  life.  O 
dear,  darling  papa,  why  did  you  not  take  me 
with  you  ?  " 

And  a  burst  of  bitter,  passionate  weeping 
soothed  her  somewhat,  after  which  she 
prayed  for  herself,  but  more  earnestly  for 
him,  that  God  might  make  him  happy, 
adding  the  thought,  "  Poor  darling  !  how  he 
has  suffered !  O,  if  anything  had  parted  us 
but  this  terrible  circumstance  of  his  birth, 
how  soon  would  I  put  aside  all  other  ob- 
stacles and  become  his  wife,  if  he  wished  it ! 
I  know  he  loves  me ;  yes,  I  am  sure  he  loves 
me  in  spite  of  all."  And  with  this  thought 
in  her  heart  she  fell  into  a  peaceful  sleep, 
and  dreamed  that  she  stood  on  one  of  the 
terraces  of  Helmsford  looking  out  toward 
the  sea.  The  sun  shone,  the  birds  sang, 
and  Guido  was  by  her  side,  no  longer  sad 
and  solemn,  but  so  glad  and  happy.  And 
then  she  knew  she  was  his  wife,  and  they 
were  to  be  parted  no  more  forever. 

She  awoke  with  a  feeling  of  deep  hap- 
piness nestling  like  a  tender  bird  in  her 
bosom.  And  happiness  is  often  as  rest- 
less as  sorrow.  She  could  not  sleep,  so 
she  arose  and  looked  at  her  watch.  It  was 
two  o'clock.  She  opened  the  curtains  and 
stood  in  the  window.  The  night  was  clear 
and  warm.  Diana  was  dreaming  in  rap- 
ture on  the  distant  hills ;  the  breeze  just 
stirred  the  leaves  of  the  orange-trees  ;  and 
the  oleander-blossoms  trembled  and  shivered 
as  though  a  spirit  had  passed  over  them 
in  its  silent  flight  to  the  serene  heavens. 
The  water  of  the  fountain  fell  with  a  monot- 
onous and  gentle  murmur  into  the  marble 
basin  below,  and  a  lone  cricket  chirped  in 
the  wall.  All  was  silence  and  repose. 

She  threw  a  dressing-gown  around  her, 
and  stepped  out  upon  the  balcony,  where 
she  could  see  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
court  the  window  of  Guido's  room.  "  I 
wonder  if  he  sleeps,"  she  thought,  as  she 
walked  forward. 

But,  much  to  her  surprise,  the  curtains 
were  open,  and  a  faint  light  streamed  over 
the  vines  and  flowers  that  adorned  his  bal- 
cony. "  He  cannot  sleep,  he  is  studying  or 
writing  "  :  and  she  leaned  softly  forward, 
that  she  might  look  into  his  chamber. 

Before  an  antique  reading-desk,  on  which 
lay  open  an  ancient  illuminated  missal, 
knelt  Guido.  His  long  black  robes  fell 
around  him,  his  hands  were  clasped  on  the 
book,  and  his  cheek  rested  on  his  folded 
hand-.  His  eyes  were  closed,  but  his  face 
was  turned  toward  the  pictured  Madonna 
that  smiled  upon  him  from  the  wall ;  and 
the  light  from  a  waxen  taper  that  burned 


above  fell  full  upon  his  pale  forehead.  He 
was  either  in  silent  motionless  prayer,  or, 
worn  out  and  exhausted  by  his  conflict- 
ing feelings,  had  fallen  into  a  heavy  slum- 
ber. 

Was  he  praying,  or  was  he  sleeping  ? 
She  could  not  determine.  But  &he  felt,  as 
she  stole  back  to  her  room,  that  he  only- 
needed  the  aureole  above  his  brow,  to  look 
like  a  saint. 

"  Dear  angel,"  she  said,  half  weeping ; 
"  a  little  while  the  thorns,  the  bleeding  feet, 
the  aching  heart,  and  then  God,  I  trust,  will 
give  us  both  eternal  peace." 

The  next  morning,  at  the  breakfast-table, 
a  note  was  handed  to  Constance.  She 
opened  it.  It  was  dated  Hotel  de  Home, 
and  was  from  Lady  Dinsmore.  She  wrote : 
"  We  arrived  late  last  night,  and  are  too 
tired  to  go  out  to-day.  Will  you  come  to 
us  directly  ?  " 

An  hour  later  Constance  and  Madame 
Landel  were  shown  into  the  private  parlor 
of  Lady  Dinsmore,  who  entered  in  a  few 
moments,  followed  by  a  fair  delicate  girl  of 
seventeen.  She  took  Constance  in  her 
arms  and  kisFed  her  tenderly,  and  then  pre- 
sented her  daughter,  whom  she  called  Flor- 
ence. "  I  hope  you  will  like  each  other, 
and  become  fast  friends."  Then,  taking 
a  seat  on  the  sofa  near  Madame  Landel, 
she  began  an  earnest  conversation  with 
her,  leaving  the  young  ladies  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  each  other.  But  while 
Constance  listened  to  the  somewhat  uninter- 
!  esting  account  of  Miss  Dinsmore's  journey 
i  from  London  to  Paris  and  from  Paris  to 
Borne,  her  eyes  were  reading  the  face  of 
her  father's  friend.  She  was  not  old,  cer- 
tainly not  over  forty- five  :  rather  thin  and 
slight,  brown  hair  a  little  streaked  with 
gray,  low  full  forehead,  soft  blue  eyes, 
straight  nose,  and  rather  thin  lips,  droop- 
ing at  the  corners  in  sorrowful  curves. 
She  must  have  been  very  lovely  in  her 
early  youth,  for  she  was  lovely  now.  It 
was  a  face  that  one  could  not  see  and  pass 
without  turning  for  another  glance,  —  calm, 
gentle,  sweet ;  that  transient,  undefinable 
shade  of  sorrow,  like  the  silvery  haze  that 
softens  the  beauty  of  a  summer  sunset ; 
something  that  told  you  she  had  drunk 
deeply  of  the  brimming  cup  of  joy  and  love, 
as  well  as  the  bitter  draught  that  so  often 
follows. 

There  are  some  faces  which  plainly  show 
that  a  tragedy  has  formed  some  part  of  their 
experience,  and  although  we  have  not  r«  ad 
the  argument,  it  is  not  difficult  to  determine 
something  of  the  plot  by  the  actors  that 
pass  over  the  scene.  In  some  eyes  the  fires 
of  passion  seem  forever  burned  out,  and 
one  can  judge  something  of  their  intensify 
by  the  ruin  and  ravage  that  is  left.  In 
others,  desire  and  joy  are  gone  forever,  but 


08 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


hope  and  faith  still  remain.  They  live  on 
the  past,  on  sweet  memories  that  they  nour- 
ish ;viid  keep  green  with  secret,  silent  tears ; 
or  they  look  forward  with  patient,  unques- 
tioning trust  to  the  union  that  shall  be  eter- 
nal. °Such  faces  bear  the  impress  of  the 
thoughts  and  feelings  that  have  swept  over 
them!  Such  eyes  look  through  misty  tears 
beyond  the  veil  into  the  beautiful  unseen. 
Such  natures  never  grow  old  or  hard,  but 
are  always  gentle,  pitiful,  and  charitable. 

Such  a  character  was  Lady  Dinsmore. 
No  one  knew  her  who  did  not  love  her.  Her 
daughter  worshipped  her  as  something  be- 
yond frail,  feeble  humanity.  Her  servants, 
her  poor  dependants,  her  friends,  even  her 
ordinary  acquaintances,  found  in  her  a  com- 
bination of  perfections  seldom  united  in  the 
same  person.  Some  refining  process  had 
taken  place  in  a  character  naturally  noble 
and  beautiful ;  and  Constance,  as  she  studied 
her  face,  knew  that  behind  that  placid  ex- 
terior was  hidden  the  history  of  a  life. 
What  was  it  ?  The  same  old  story  that  has 
known  no  change  since  the  birth  of  time. 

Constance  longed  for  her  confidence  and 
love,  and  for  a  moment  almost  envied  the 
girl  at  her  side  the  possession  of  such  a 
mother.  And  Lady  Dinsmore,  while  she 
had  been  talking  with  Madame  Landel,  had 
also  been  regarding  Constance. 

"I  feel  it  a  pleasure,"  she  said,  "  as  well 
as  a  sacred  duty  I  owe  to  her  father,  to  take 
her  into  my  heart  and  love  her  as  my  own 
child ;  and  I  am  sure  her  sweet  face  de- 
clares her  worthy  the  utmost  affection." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Madame  Landel,  "  she  is 
indeed  worthy  your  ladyship's  esteem.  I 
have  known  her  inmost  life  for  eight  years, 
and  I  have  learned  how  noble  and  beautiful 
a  nature  she  has.  She  has  suffered  much, 
but  so  patiently  and  quietly  that  one  can- 
not but  admire  and  respect  her." 

"  Poor  child !  and  she  is  quite  alone  in  the 
world  but  for  you.  Her  father  was  a  man 
of  great  discrimination,  and  his  confidence 
in  you  is  justified  by  the  fidelity  with  which 
you  Have  discharged  your  duty.  He  was 
fortunate,  dear  Madame,  in  finding  such  a 
companion  for  his  child." 

"  What  I  have  doire,  I  have  done  for 
love.  She  is  very  dear  to  me,"  replied 
Madame  Landel.  "  In  the  future  I  hope  we 
shall  be  much  together,  and  I  will  try  to 
make  her  forget  that  she  has  never  known  a 
mother's  love." 

From  that  day  their  friendship  increased 
rapidly.  They  naturally  liked  each  other, 
and  the  addition  to  their  party  of  Lady 
Dinsmore  and  her  daughter  was  indeed 
pleasant  to  all ;  and,  beside,  Mr.  Carnegie 
•was  a  very  old  friend  of  her  family. 

As  soon  as  Lady  Dinsmore  had  heard  the 
sad  and  strange  history  of  Mrs.  Tremaine, 
and  of  her  unhappy  attachment  to  the 


Prince  Conti,  she  at  once  took  her  with 
Constance  under  her  especial  protection, 
and  tried  by  every  gentle  and  thoughtful 
attention  to  teach  her  that  there  could  be 
other  loves  and  hopes  in  life  aside  from  that 
absorbing  passion.  Not  that  Helen  was 
ever  sad,  gloomy,  or  complaining.  No ;  she 
seemed  to  live  in  a  sort  of  delusive  happi- 
ness, which  she  did  not  wish  disturbed  by 
any  reference  to  the  future.  Mr.  Carnegie 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  to  be  a  lover.  A 
kind,  thoughtful  brother  could  not  have 
been  more  devoted  than  he.  Sometimes 
when  he  looked  at  her,  as  she  leaned  on  the 
arm  of  the  Prince,  and  listened  to  his  words 
of  flattering  adoration,  he  would  think  sadly, 
"  Poor  child  !  if  I  could  only  save  her  from 
the  sorrow  that  must  be  hers  in  the  future. 
Can  she  not  see  that  each  day  she  passes 
in  the  society  of  this  weak,  unprincipled 
man  adds  another  link  to  the  chain  that 
binds  her  to  him?" 

From  the  night  that  Constance  had  over- 
heard the  conversation  in  the  Sala  di  Dante 
her  manner  had  entirely  changed  toward 
Guido.  It  was  true  she  seldom  saw  him 
now,  except  at  her  lessons ;  and  then  she  was 
the  dignified,  attentive  pupil,  —  nothing 
more.  Those  little  half-confidences  were 
over.  There  were  no  more  adoring  glances 
from  the  dark  eyes  of  Guido,  as  he  sang 
with  her  sweet,  impassioned  romances ;  no 
more  timid,  trembling  smiles  from  Con- 
stance. She  was  grave,  almost  severe.  If 
her  heart  ached  under  the  light  grasp  with 
which  she  held  it,  she  only  increased  the 
pressure,  because  she  felt  she  must  then  and 
there  crush  that  love,  or  later  it  would 
crush  her. 

There  were  no  more  evenings  passed  to- 
gether in  sweet  but  dangerous  dallying  at 
the  piano,  or  with  heads  bent  over  some 
Italian  poem  which  too  often  expressed 
their  own  tender  love.  For  everything  con- 
nected with  Guido  seemed  to  her  imagina- 
tion poetry  and  music.  The  very  words 
of  his  beautiful  language  breathed  passion. 
The  sound  of  his  voice,  the  sweet,  sad  smile, 
the  tender  melancholy  nature,  all  made  his 
presence  too  dear  and  too  seductive. 

And  Guido  also  knew  and  avoided  the 
danger  he  experienced  in  the  presence  of 
this  lovely,  pure  English  girl,  so  different 
from  the  dark,  passionate  beauty  of  his  own 
countrywomen.  To  him  she  was  a  saint,  an 
angel,  something  far  above  even  his  adoring 
eyes.  "  Ah ! ''  he  sometimes  thought,  "  she 
cannot  be  mine  on  earth,  but  I  will  enshrine 
her  in  my  heart  as  Dante  did  his  Beatrice, 
as  Petrarch  his  Laura,  as  Ta?so  his  Leonora, 
and  she  shall  be  my  only  love.  It  is 
better  to  worship  her  memory  than  to  be  the 
idol  of  any  other  woman.  Then,  after  a  lit- 
tle waiting,  I  shall  see  her  forever  in  the 
paradise  of  the  free." 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


69 


And  so  he  lived,  and  worked,  and  sang, 
and  dreamed  his  sweet  dream  with  smiling 
lips  and  tearful  eyes,  and  the  world  noticed 
that  there  was  a  sweeter,  more  touching  pa- 
thos in  his  voice  than  ever  before. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

I   SEEM    TO    HAVE    HEARD    THAT   VOICE 
BEFORE. 

fJ^HE  Christmas  festivities  had  commenced, 
JL  and  nearly  every  day  Lady  Dinsmore 
and  her  daughter,  accompanied  by  Con- 
stance and  ill's.  Tremaine,  were  seen  at  the 
ceremonies,  concerts,  and  receptions.  Ma- 
dame L  an  del  rarely  went  with  them  ;  now 
that  she  was  no  longer  needed  as  chaperon, 
she  preferred  remaining  quietly  at  home. 

To  Florence  Dinsmore  the  world  was 
new,  bright,  and  beautiful,  and  her  mother 
rejoiced  to  see  in  the  buoyant  spirits  of  her 
child  signs  of  returning  health.  Although 
her  heart  was  not  in  any  of  the  gay  scenes, 
she  willingly  made  the  sacrifice  of  inclina- 
tion to  increase  the  innocent  happiness  of 
her  daughter. 

Constance,  who  studied  closely  every 
change  in  the  gentle  i'ace  of  the  lady,  often 
saw  her  eyes  grow  dreamy  and  tearful,  and 
a  far-off  expression,  that  seemed  to  look 
into  the  past  or  future,  would  fall  over  her 
like  an  impalpable  veil,  and  she  would  be 
oblivious  of  all  around  her.  Then  the  girl 
would  gently  lay  her  hand  on  hers,  and 
smile  into  her  face  a  look  of  intelligence,  as 
though  she  understood  her  thoughts.  Be- 
tween them  there  seemed  to  be  that  tacit 
sympathy,  that  deep  comprehension,  that 
showed  there  was  something  akin  in  their 
natures  and  experiences. 

Often  during  some  brilliant  reception, 
•while  Mrs.  Tremaine,  the  Prince,  Florence, 
and  Mr.  Carnegie  were  dancing,  laughing, 
and  talking  together,  Lady  Dinsmore  and 
Constance  would  sit  apart  in  a  quiet 
corner,  absorbed  in  grave,  and  sometimes 
sad  conversation.  There  were  times  when 
she  desired  to  open  her  heart  to  her  friend, 
and  tell  her  of  this  new  trial,  which,  in  spite 
of  every  effort  to  lighten  it,  seemed  to  be 
the  heaviest  she  had  ever  endured.  Do  all 
she  would,  —  distract  herself  with  all  the 
interests  of  life,  enter  into  the  world  with 
a  feverish  eagerness,  search  ever  after 
some  new  enjoyment,  —  yet  amid  all  that  love 
haunted  her,  and  filled  every  moment  of 
her  life(to  the  exclusion  of  duty  and  pleasure. 
.  Although  she  seldom  saw  Guido,  yet  she 
heard  him.  In  the  morning,  when  she 
awoke,  his  matins  were  the  first  sound  that 
fell  upon  her  ear.  In  all  the  church  cere- 
monies he  seemed  to  sin"  alone  to  her. 


How  could  she  forget  him,  when  she  was 
always  under  the  influence  of  that  wonderful 
voice  V  She  felt  that  distance  was  her  only 
hope,  and  sometimes  she  longed  for  her 
quiet  home  and  her  far-oil'  graves,  that  she 
might  kneel  above  the  dust  of  her  father,  and 
implore  strength  from  Him  who  would  know 
and  understand  the  sufferings  of  his  child. 

It  was  very  evident  to  Lady  Dinsmore, 
that  the  Prince,  in  spite  of  his  preii-rence 
for  Mrs.  Tremaine,  had  placed  his  a.-piring 
eyes  on  Florence  as  one  of  the  richest 
heiresses  of  England.  From  the  first  she 
had  shown  no  liking  for,  but  rather  an  indif- 
erence  to  him 

"  Does  he  dare  think,"  said  Lady  Dins- 
more,  during  a  confidential  chat  with  Con- 
stance, —  "  does  he  dare  think  I  will  give  my 
child  to  one  whom  I  know  to  be  mercenary 
and  unprincipled,  and  whose  affections  are 
already  bestowed  upon  another  woman  ?  I 
cannot  understand  Helen's  infatuation  for 
that  man.  Truly  he  is  as  handsome  as 
Apollo,  and  of  a  most  fascinating  address; 
but  when  she  knows  his  love  is  not  superior 
to  his  avarice,  how  can  she  worship  him  as 
she  does  ?  If  he  were  unselfish  and  coura- 
geous, and  did  not  fear  to  face  poverty  with 
her,  then  I  could  understand  her  devotion; 
but  as  it  is,  I  cannot,"  and  she  sighed. 
"  What  a  mystery  is  the  human  heart !  My 
child  shall  marry  the  man  she  loves  if  he 
is  worthy  of  her,  no  matter  what  his  birth 
or  position  may  be.  If  he  loves  her,  and  is 
good  and  noble,  she  shall  be  his  wife." 

'•  What,"  said  Constance,  with  a  lit  tie 
tremble  in  her  voice,  "  if  he  was  of  lowly 
birth,  —  illegitimate,  for  example, —  would 
you  be  willing  then  ?  " 

u  I  cannot  tell,"  the  replied  ;  "  but  I  think 
my  child  would  scarcely  love  one  who  had 
sprung  from  such  an  ignoble  source." 

Constance  said  no  more,  but  her  heart  sank 
heavily,  and  she  thought,  "  Even  she,  so  good 
and  charitable,  and  so  much  above  the  pre- 
judices of  the  world,  could  not  ignore  that!" 

It  was  Christmas  day,  and  St.  Peter's  was 
magnificent  in  commemoration  of  the  birth 
of  the  Prince  of  Glory.  The  imposing  pro- 
cession li  ad  passed'to  the  high  altar,  —  the 
priests,  the  canons,  the  singers,  the  hi:-hops, 
the  cardinals,  and  then  the  Pope,  borne 
aloft  on  his  gold  and  velvet  throne,  sur- 
rounded by  all  the  pomp  and  maje-ty  of  a 
religion  almost  Pagan  or  Oriental  in  the 
gorgeous  forms  of  its  ceremonies. 

The  ladies,  in  their  black  dres-es  md 
veils,  Were  seated  in  the  tribune  near  the 
choir.  And  Constance  listened,  unmindful 
of  all  else,  to  the  voice  of  (Juido,  that  TOM-. 
and  floated,  clear  and  thrilling,  and  distinct 
above  the  others,  as  they  s:ing  the  sublime 
anthem  of  praise,  (ilurio  I  I >«>  ! 

She  knew  his  voice  so  well  that  she  could 
distinguish  it  in  its  softest  and  most  : 


70 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


inflections.  Indeed,  she  seemed  to  hear 
that  alone  in  all  the  variations  of  melody 
that  floated  around  her. 

Suddenly  Lady  Dinsmore  laid  a  hand  on 
her  arm,  and  said  in  a  choked  whisper, 
while  her  face  was  deadly  pale,  "I  seem  to 
have  heard  that  voice  before.  How  strange- 
ly familiar  it  is!" 

"  Which  ?  "  inquired  Constance,  with  a 
faint  flush,  for  to  her  there  was  but  one 
voice,  yet  she  did  not  wish  Lady  Dinsmore 
to  know  it. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  I  do  not  hear  it  now ; 
but  it  was  wonderful,  and  so  familiar,  it  re- 
minded me  of  something  heard  long  ago  in 
my  youth." 

Again  the  mist  of  tears  dimmed  her  eyes, 
and  she  fell  into  a  deep  revery. 

Constance,  who  sat  next  her,  watched 
her  closely,  and  she  was  sure  she  never  once 
glanced  at  the  Pope,  in  his  magnificent 
robes  and  mitre,  performing  mass  at  the 
high  altar,  surrounded  by  all  the  emblems 
of  that  glorious  day.  Neither  did  she  turn 
her  soft  eyes  toward  the  majestic  dome  with 
its  painted  angels  floating  so  far  above,  that 
one  almost  fancies  he  is.  looking  through 
a  rent  into  heaven.  Nor  did  she  remark 
all  the  vast,  swaying,  palpitating  mass 
before  her.  Only  at  the  elevation  of  the 
host,  when  all  alike,  impressed  with  the 
solemnity  of  the  scene,  fell  prostrate  before 
the  Most  High,  Constance  heard  distinctly 
below  the  thrilling  strains  of  the  silver 
trumpets  a  choked,  convulsive  sob.  Where 
had  the  woman's  soul  strayed?  What 
memories  had  that  voice  awakened  in  her 
heart  ? 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

LADY  DINSMORE   AND   THE   MAESTRO. 

"  T  HAVE  taken  tickets  for  the  Braschi 

J.  ball  on  the  30th,"  said  Lady  Dinsmore 
one  day  to  Constance  and  Mrs.  Tremaine, 
who  were  sitting  with  her.  "I  supposed 
you  would  both  like  to  go,  so  I  subscribed 
for  four  tickets." 

"  O,  thanks  ! "  cried  Helen,  eagerly.  "  I 
am  so  glad.  I  did  not  dare  hope  for  such  a 
pleasure,  as  Constance  all  the  season  has 
resolutely  set  her  face  against  balls,  and  it  is 
useless  to  expect  Madame  Landel  to  go  with- 
out her.  So  since  Lady  Charlotte  went  to 
Naples  I  have  been  a  prisoner." 

"  Indeed,  I  cannot  go,"  said  Constance, 
sadly.  "  I  have  not  the  desire,  and  then  I 
cannot  lay  aside  my  mourning  even  for  one 
evening." 

"  My  dear,"  replied  Lady  Dinsmore,  "  I 
think  you  need  have  no  scruples  about  it ; 
it  is  to  be  a  charity  ball  and  concert  together, 
—  music  first  and  dancing  after.  If  you  do 


not  wish  to  remain,  we  can  leave  when  the 
concert  is  finished." 

"  And  so  spoil  my  pleasure,  you  naughty 
mamma,"  said  Florence,  pouting.  "  You 
know  I  only  care  for  the  dancing." 

"  And  I  also,"  laughed  Mrs.  Tremaine. 
"  But  Constance  will  find  the  music  most 
interesting,  as  I  hear  the  Pope  has  given 
Signer  Guido  permission  to  sing.  The  ob- 
ject being  to  raise  funds  toward  finishing 
the  new  hospital,  which  is  likely  to  be  need- 
ed, as  there  are  rumors  of  political  troubles 
in  this  vicinity  at  no  distant  time." 

"  Who  is  Signor  Guido  ?  "  inquired  Lady 
Dinsmore. 

"  What !  have  you  not  seen  him  ?  He  is 
the  most  celebrated  singer  in  Rome,  the 
first  tenor  of  the  Pope,  and  Constance's 
master,"  with  a  sly  smile.  "  If  you  had 
been  here  a  month  or  two  ago  you  would 
have  seen  him  in  some  of  your  visits  to  us, 
as  he  was  almost  always  in  our  drawing- 
room  of  an  evening  ;  but  now  he  has  taken 
a  whim  to  stay  away,  and  all  my  efforts  to 
induce  him  to  come  as  usual  are  useless,  he 
will  persist  in  being  stubborn  !  " 

Constance  changed  the  subject  as  quick- 
ly as  possible,  by  saying  she  would  go,  add- 
ing some  inquiries  respecting  her  toilet  for 
the  evening.  Mrs.  Tremaine,  when  once 
launched  upon  the  theme  of  dress,  forgot  her 
teasing  propensity,  and  Constance  breathed 
freely  again. 

The  evening  of  the  30th  came,  and  at  nine 
o'clock  Lady  Dinsmore  and  her  daughter, 
Constance  and  Mrs.  Tremaine,  alighted  from 
the  carriage,  and  passed  between  the  double 
line  of  dragoons  up  the  broad  marble  stair- 
case of  the  grand  entrance  to  the  palazzo 
Braschi. 

Rare  old  tapestry  hung  on  each  side  of 
the  lofty  corridors,  and  the.  regal  apartments 
were  festooned  with  silk  of  every  hue,  bril- 
liant with  golden  fringe  and  studded  with 
stars  and  emblems.  Flowers  bloomed  in 
marble  vases ;  statues  of  exquisite  work- 
manship supported  antique  candelabras, 
from  which  sprang  jets  of  light ;  graceful 
fountain?,  surrounded  by  fragrant  lilies 
slumbering  on  beds  of  damp  green  moss, 
threw  up  tiny  streams,  which  fell  with  soft 
liquid  ripples  into  the  marble  basins;  al- 
coves filled  with  orange-trees,  whose  creamy 
blossoms  made  the  air  heavy  with  delicious 
odor.  Strains  of  bewildering  music  rose 
and  fell  on  the  perfumed  air.  Diamonds 
sparkled  on  fair  besoms  and  snowy  brows, 
pearls  gleamed  amid  dark  tresses,  and 
gems  of  the  Orient  flashed  and  scintillated, 
half  hidden  in  meshes  of  burnished  gold. 
The  grand  salon  seemed  a  bed  of  rare 
tropical  flowers,  bending  and  waving  under 
a  breeze  wafted  from  the  rose-gardens  of 
Araby.  Beauty,  light,  and  laughter,  —  waves 
of  lace  and  garlands  of  flowers,  —  smiles  on 


WO  VEX   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


71 


faces  that  had  always  smiled,  and  lips  that 
had  always  uttered  gay  nothing.*,  —  and 
smiles  alike  on  lips  that  had  quivered  but 
a  few  hours  before  in  grief  and  anguish  or 
uttered  dark  words  of  hate  and  revenge. 
There  the  wife  leaned  with  infinite  sweet- 
ness on  dij  arm  of  the  husband  she  de- 
tested, while  she  smiled  in  the  face  of  the 
lover  she  loved ;  and  the  husband  in  his 
heart  longed  to  be  by  the  side  of  a  dark- 
eyed  beauty  who  received  the  ardent  com- 
pliments of  a  gay  cavalier  with  evident 
pleasure  and  satisfaction. 

Mammas,  stately  in  velvet  and  diamonds, 
intrigued  with  proud  delicacy  to  place  in 
the  most  noticeable  positions  their  mar- 
riageable (laughters.  Young  offshoots  of 
Roman  nobility  paid  court  to  red  hair  and 
freckles  with  wonderful  assiduity,  because 
they  were  gilded  by  the  filthy  lucre  made  in 
trade,  which  they  affected  to  despise  and  dis- 
dain ;  n'importe,  the  gold  would  not  soil 
their  white  hands  if  it  did  bear  the  stain  of 
shops  and  mart?.  It  is  safe-  to  say  that  the 
greater  part  of  the  distinguished  throng- 
wore  masks  of  smiles  and  robes  of  well-bred 
politeness  over  deceit  and  hypocrisy. 

Every  eye  was  turned  upon  Lady  Dins- 
more  as  she  entered,  leaning  on  the  arm 
of  Mr.  Carnegie,  followed  by  her  daughter, 
Constance,  and  Mrs.  Tremaine.  Murmurs 
of  admiration  greeted  them  as  they  passed 
up  the  long  salon.  Helen  was  most  love- 
ly in  pale  blue  moire  antique,  her  yellow 
hair  gleaming  through  the  meshes  of  a  gold 
net,  escaping  here  and  there  and  falling  in 
waves  of  sunshine  over  her  shoulders  and 
dress. 

Constance,  in  plain  white  silk,  without 
ornament,  her  abundant  dark  hair  simply 
arranged,  formed  a  striking  contrast  to 
Helen.  The  one  resembled  a  delicate  steel 
engraving,  the  other  a  glorious  Watteau. 
Florence  was  very  sweet  and  innocent,  in 
tulle  and  rosebuds ;  and  Lady  Dinsmore 
more  fair  and  delicate  than  ever,  in  laven- 
der silk  and  black  lace. 

In  a  moment  the  Prince  was  at  their  side, 
gay,  animated,  and  handsome  as  the  god 
of  beauty. 

"You  are  just  in  time,"  he  said;  "the 
curtain  will  rise  in  a  moment,  and  Liszt 
will  play  one  of  Beethoven's  sonatas,  and 
afterwards  Signor  Guido  will  sing.  See, 
there  are  but  five  pieces  on  the  programme, 
—  all  exquisite,  and  by  first-rate  artists  ;  so 
we  can  have  a  little  patience  until  the  danc- 
ing begins.  Mrs.  Tremaine,  remember  you 
promised  me  the  first  waltz  ;  and  Lady 
Dinsmore,  may  I  have  the  honor  of  Miss 
Dinsmore's  hand  for  the  first  quadrille  1  And 
Miss  Wilbreham,  I  hope  also  —  "  "  Thank 
you,  I  do  not  dance,"  interrupted  Con- 
stance ;  "  I  shall  be  only  a  spectator  after 
the  music  is  finished." 


A  murmur !  A  hush !  The  green  velvet 
curtain  is  drawn  aside?,  and  Liszt  takes  his 
place  at  the  piano.  He  regards  the  au- 
dience long  and  steadily  from  under  his 
heavy  brows,  with  cy; -s  -r;;y,  h;,rd,  and  al- 
most metallic.  He  adju.-ts,  wiili  ;m  impa- 
tient twitch,  his  wristbands  ;  tLruv.'s  Lack 
his  long  iron-gray  hair  ;  rai>es  his  thin  lithe 
hands  above  the  keys.  Then  for  a  mo- 
ment  he  seems  to  be  invoking  the  aid  of 
some  supernatural  power ;  for  a  strange  ex- 
pression passes  over  his  face,  —  something 
inscrutable,  mysterious.  Then  the  hands 
descend,  and  one  forgets  there  is  anvthing 
mechanical  in  music  ;  they  are  inspired, — 
each  finger  seems  a  separate  soul,  and  each 
soul  expresses  itself  with  force  ai.d  j  a^imi. 
The  metallic  eyes  light  up.  Fires  of  divine 
genius  burn  under  each  cavernous  brow. 
The  square,  massive  chin  is  thrust  for- 
ward. The  flexible  mouth  quivers  and 
trembles.  The  Dantesque  profile  is  more 
clear  and  cutting  in  its  outline.  The  broad 
brow  beams  with  a  scrt  of  transparency. 
The  long  locks  dance  and  writhe.  The 
fingers  fly  and  float  from  key  to  key.  The 
stern,  sad  face  is  transformed.  The  divinity 
of  genius  has  made  sublime  the  human,  and 
for  a  moment  the  mantle  has  descended 
from  above  and  hidden  the  mortal. 

It  was  the  first  time  the  ladies  had  heard 
this  great  artist,  and  they  listened  spell- 
bound. It  seemed  to  Constance  as  though 
every  puke  had  ceased  to  beat,  as  she  fol- 
lowed him  through  all  the  intricacies  of 
sound,  —  now  high,  now  low  ;  now  passion- 
ate, thrilling,  bewildering  ;  then  hushing  all 
the  senses  into  a  silent  rapture  ; 
wailing  forth  in  strains  of  irresistible  force, 
bearing  the  longing  soul  into  swift  currents, 
toward  unknown  seas. 

O  great  composer,  who  hast  touched 
heights  to  others  unattainable,  in  the  calm 
and  silence  of  thy  life,  when  earthly  dis- 
cords were  forever  shut  out,  thou  hast  hoard 
the  songs  of  angels,  and  hast  embodied 
thy  tranced  thoughts  in  notes  that  never 
before  fell  on  mortal  ears !  O  incompara- 
ble artist,  who  hast  so  worthily  rendi-ml 
the  inspiration  of  the  sublime  master,  who 
shall  say  that  in  thy  inner  and  better  life 
there  are  no  revelations  from  above,  to 
teach  thee  so  to  influence  and  subdue  the 
hearts  of  a  multitude  with  thy  divine  mel- 
ody ? 

As  he  moved  from  the  piano,  little  white 
gloves  were  laid  together  in  rapturous  r.p- 
plause ;  and  bright  eyes  welcomed  him  with 
delight  as  he  descended  nmonir  the  au- 
dience, bowing,  smiling,  and  tulkiiur  gayly 
witlrall.  Constance  followed  him  with  her 
eyes,  scarcely  remembering  that  (luido  was 
to  sing  next,  until  Ilc-len  touched  lu-r  arm 
and  said,  "  See,  the  conquering  hero  c< 

A  burst  of  welcome  greeted  him  as  he 


7£ 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


walked  across  the  stage  to  the  piano.  He 
looked  a  little  paler  than  usual,  but  rather 
triumphant,  as  though  he  was  aware  he  had 
a  place  in  the  hearts  of  his  compatriots 
equal  to  the  great  artist  who  had  preceded 
him.  He  sang  that  exquisite  canzonette  of 
Rolli,  "  Solitario  loxco  ombroso,"  that  Raff 
sanf  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  on 
that  lovely  moonlight  night  in  the  orange 
garden  of  Naples,  to  the  Princess  Belmonte. 
And  Guido  sang  with  the  same  pathos  and 
power  of  expression  to  one,  and  that  one 
was  Constance.  Although  his  eyes  never 
once  turned  upon  her,  she  felt  that  each  word 
was  addressed  to  her  heart.  She  was  ab- 
sorbed, lost  in  the  tender  thoughts  the  song 
inspired,  when  a  low  exclamation  from 
Florence  startled  her. 

"  O  mamma  !  what  is  it  ?  " 

She  looked  at  Lady  Dinsmore ;  her  hands 
were  tightly  clasped,  her  face  deadly  pale, 
and  her  eyes  fixed  with  a  sort  of  stare  on 
Guido.  ' "  Are  you  ill,  dear  Lady  Dins- 
more  ?  'J  inquired  Constance,  anxiously. 

"  No,  no ! "  and  she  made  a  supreme 
effort  to  compose  herself;  "but  that  song, 
that  voice,  how  strange !  Who  is  this  young- 
man  ? "  she  said,  in  a  hoarse,  suppressed 
whisper,  grasping  Constance's  hand  and 
looking  imploringly  into  her  face. 

"  It  is  the  singer  of  whom  Mrs.  Tremaine 
spoke  the  other  day,  Signor  Bernardo." 

"  Bernardo,"  she  repeated,  —  "  Guido 
Bernardo."  And  then,  pressing  her  hand  to 
her  eyes  in  a  bewildered  manner,  she  re- 
mained a  few  moments  as  if  in  deep 
thought,  while  Florence  regarded  her  anx- 
iously. When  she  looked  up  every  sign  of 
emotion  had  passed  from  her  face,  and  she 
smiled  as  she  said,  "  How  foolish  I  am  !  but 
a  strain  of  music,  a  passing  resemblance,  a 
name  that  reminds  me  of  a  dear  friend  of 
my  youth,  quite  unnerve  me." 

At  that  moment  Guido  finished  his  song, 
and  stood  bowing  and  smiling  in  acknowl- 
edgment of  the  enthusiastic  applause  re- 
peated again  and  again. 

In  a  moment  he  was  at  the  side  of  Con- 
stance, flushed,  happy,  excited ;  and  as  he 
took  her  hand  he  said,  "  Were  you  pleased 
with  my  song  ?  " 

Unawares  she  let  her  heart  look  through 
her  eyes,  as  she  replied,  "  O  so  much !  it 
is  a  lovely  composition,  and  you  sang  it 
with  expression  and  feeling." 

"  I  sang  it  for  you,"  he  replied,  with  an 
earnest  look  and  a  smile  of  deep  tender- 


"  Thank  you,  I  feel  flattered,"  she  re- 
turned, coldly,  for  again  the  heart  was 
pressed  down  under  the  curb  of  pride. 

Lady  Dinsmore's  eyes  were  fixed  earnest- 
ly on  Guido  while  he  spoke,  and  when  he 
turned  suddenly  at  Constance's  rep'y  to  ad- 
dress some  remarks  to  Mrs-  Trernaine  she 


said,  "  Present  this  young  man  to  me,  my 
dear,  I  wish  to  know  him." 

Constance    introduced    him,    and   Lady 

|  Dinsmore  gave  him  her  hand  with  more 

|  than  her  usual  kindness,  as  she  made  room 

|  for  him  beside  her,  and  entered  at  once  into 

an  earnest  conversation. 

Constance  had  just  taken  the  arm  of  a 
most  elegant  guard "M  nobile  for  a  short 
promenade  during  the  pause  in  the  music. 
This  young  man  had  worshipped  her  at  a 
distance  all  the  ?ea?on,  but  she  had  never 
|  so  much  as  -encouraged  him  with  a  smile. 
This  evening,  from  some  strange  perversity, 
she  was  most  gracious. 

Mrs.  Tremaine  was  as  usual  engrossed 
with  the  Prince,  and  Florence  was  listening 
to  one  of  Mr.  Carnegie's  quaint  and  amus- 
ing criticisms  on  the  society  around  them. 
So  no  one  observed  the  purport  of  Lady 
Dinsmore's  conversation  with  the  maestro, 
but  they  all  remarked  that  he  never  left 
her  side  for  the  evening.  When  they  re- 
turned home,  at  an  early  hour,  he  escorted 
her  to  the  carriage. 

After  the  concert  was  finished,  Lady 
Dinsmore  and  Constance  wished  to  leave  at 
once  ;  but  Mrs.  Tremaine  and  Florence  en- 
treated so  earnestly  for  just  two  dances 
that  they  agreed  to  remain  a  little  longer. 
They  entered  the  brilliantly  decorated  ball- 
room just  as  the  band  began  a  waltz 
of  Strauss.  In  a  moment  Mrs.  Tre- 
maine and  the  Prince,  Florence  and  Mr. 
Carnegie,  were  floating  among  the  gay  bub- 
bles of  fashion.  Constance,  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  the  young  Marchese,  made  the  tour 
of  the  magnificent  suite  of  rooms  ;  admired 
the  rare  old  pictures,  china,  and  statuary. 
More  than  once  ehe  passed  the  manufac- 
turer's fat  widow  and  her  lean  friend,  who 
were  as  busy  as  ever  anatomizing  somebody's 
character. 

Mrs.  Parlby's  red  shoulders  gushed  out 
of  her  yellow  satin  corsage,  and  her  vul- 
gar face  was  distressingly  flushed,  as  she 
watched  Guido  with  Lady  Dinsmore,  who 
seemed  to  monopolize  him  to  the  exclusion 
of  every  other  friend. 

"  I  don't  see  that  Signor  Guido  is  very 
empresse  in  his  attentions  to  this  girl," 
observed  the  long-nosed  lady ;  "  he  seems 
rather  to  devote  himself  this  evening  to 
Lady  Dinsmore.  What  a  delicate,  refined- 
looking  woman  she  is  !  " 

There  was  a  little  malice  in  the  remark, 
for  though  outwardly  the  fat  and  thin 
ladies  were  the  best  of  friends,  secretly 
they  hated  each  other,  and  one  never  let 
an  opportunity  pass  to  give  the  tender  feel- 
ings of  the  other  a  sly  stab.  <  I  think  you 
said  on  the  evening  of  the  concert  (hat  Miss 
Wilbreham  was  not  of  very  good  origin. 
She  surely  must  be,  or  Lady  Dinsmore,  a 
daughter,  as  well  as  the  wite,  of  a  peer  of 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


73 


the  realm,  would  not  chaperon  her  into  so- 
ciety." 

"  O,  that  does  not  follow!"  and  Mrs. 
Parlby  gave  her  pug  nose  a  more  upward 
in<f!in-Uion.  "  You  know  what  her  father, 
Lord  RadclifFe,  was,  —  not  a  faster  man  in 
the  United  Kingdom."  Then  she  added, 
in  a  lower  and  more  confidential  voice, 
with  many  mysterious  grimaces,  "  I  have 
heard  even  hints  of  some  cxrdjitnl,'  in  her 
youth,  and  I  know  it  was  said  at  the  time 
of  her  marriage  that  there  must  have  been 
sonu'llung  wrong  to  induce  a  young  and 
pretty  woman,  and  rich  as  she  was,  to  j 
many  old  Lord  Dinsmore,  three  times  her 
age,  1  believe.  However  it  is  certain  she 
can't  be  very  particular  in  her  moral?,  or 
she  n.'.ver  wjuld  allow  her  daughter  to  be 
always  in  ths  society  of  that  improper  Mrs. 
Tremaino  and  Conti,  who  every  one  knows 
is  a  libertine  !  " 

"  Conti  a  libertine  !  Why,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Parlby,  don't  you  know  it  was  generally 
believed  you  were  most  anxious  to  marry 
him  to  your  niece  last  season,  only  the 
settlements  were  not  sufficient  to  purchase 
the  title,  even  with  your  dot  ?  " 

"  Marry  him  to  my  nief  e !  I  would  rath- 
er give  her  to  an  African."  And  her  red 
face  grew  a  shade  redder  with  mortification, 
as  she  repeated,  "  What  a  falsehood  !  Soci- 
ety ought  to  b3  punished  for  circulating  un- 
truths." 

"  O,  my  dear,  remember  /  don't  say  it  was 
so ;  I  only  say  every  one  thought  so."  And 
the  thin  creature  gave  a  malicious  chuckle 
as  she  glanced  obliquely  at  her  fat  friend  to 
see  the  result  of  her  stab. 

Just  at  that  moment  an  exquisitely  lovely 
lady,  very  de'collete'e,  passed,  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  a  Zouave  officer. 

"  Ah,  there  is  the  MnrcTiesa  and  her  lover, 
as  usual.  II  w  can  her  husband  support 
such  an  open  intrigue  !  He  mn*t\>Q  a  fool  or 
blind.  But  ih  ;y  do  say  his  is  a  little  touched 
here,"  and  the  speaker  tapped  her  forehead 
significantly  ;  "  wine  and  women,  you  know. 
But  have  you  heard  the  last  story  of  the 
Marches?  It  is  rich,  I  can  assure  you." 

"  No,  what  is  it  1  Do  tell  me."  And  the 
long  nose  quivered  with  eagerness,  like  a 
hungry  dog's  at  the  sight  of  a  dainty  bit  of 
meat. 

"  Well,  th'3  other  night,  at  tho  ball  of  the 

Frenah  Ambassador,  she  gave  her  fan  to 

the  youn  r  Viscount  Ls  Carnic  to  hold  while 

she  danced  with  DL%  Liborde.     The  foolish, 

awkward  fellow  dropped  it,  and,  hnppily  for 

the  Kfarchesa,  broke  it.     When  tho  waltz 

was  finished  he   gave  it  to  her,  with  many 

•"us   and    regrets    for    his    i/n:if/n-r!f . 

Whsranpon   the   lovely   angel   turned   red 

v:i:h    r:i  ;cr,    declaring   it  was    an   antique 

i  i  (Irvisand  francs,  and  he  had  ruined 

it.     The  Viscount  turned  pale  with  mortifi- 

10 


cation,  but  immediately,  with  more  pride 
than  delicacy,  drew  out  his  pocket-book,  and 
laid  a  thousand-franc  bill  in  her  hand.  She 
instantly  threw  it  in  his  face,  stamped  her 
little  foot  with  rage,  demanded  of  De  La- 
borde  how  he  could  see  her  so  intuited,  and 
then,  bursting  into  tears  of  airjvr,  she  ap- 
pealed to  her  husband,  who  at  that  moment 
appeared  on  the  scene.  The  next  day  there 
was  a  challenge,  but  no  duel  followed,  as  it 
is  said  the  Mari-!,i-.<c  arr.inaed  it  with  the 
Viscount,  by  borrowing  a  hundred  thousand 
francs,  which  the  victim  was  only  t^o  glad 
to  lend,  to  get  out  of  the  scrape.  A  few 
evenings  after  this  they  were  all  together  at 
the  opera,  as  friendly  as  ever." 

"  Well,  that  is  about  a  fair  sample  of  the 
conduct  of  half  the  people  who  go  into  re- 
spectable society,"  remarked  the  listener,  in 
an  acid  voice.  "  What  protection  can  we 
who  are  proper  have  from  euch  impos- 
ture t " 

"  Look !  they  arc  leaving,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Parlby,  as  Lady  Dinsmore,  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  Guido,  and  followed  by  the  oth- 
ers of  her  party,  lefl  the  ball-room. 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  anything  so  cool? 
That  impertinent  Bernardo  has  never  been 
near  me  this  evening.  He  quite  forgets  all 
I  have  done  for  him,  and  runs  after  titles. 
Well,  he  will  get  no  more  invitations  to  my 
dinners." 

"And  you  will  get  no  more  music,  my 
dear,  nor  the  society  of  the  Earl  of  Cross- 
lands,  who  says,  with  all  due  dif -rence  to 
your  good  dinners,  he  only  accepts  your  in- 
vitations to  hear  Signer  Guido  sin  -  after- 
wards. So  it  does  not  pay  to  cut  off  your 
own  nose." 

Mrs.  Parlby  winced,  turned  her  back  on 
her  friend,  and  walked  away  in  a  towering 
passion,  half  doubting  the  sincerity  of  her 
devoted  hanger-on,  who  wns  poor  and  lived 
in  a  little  apartment,  and  liked  to  share  her 
carriage  and  eat  her  good  dinners. 

"  I  believe  she  only  pretends  thi<  friend- 
ship for  what  she  gets  out  of  me,"  was  her 
conclusion,  more  truthful  than  elegant. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

ONLY   A   LITTLF,    MAUBLi:    CKOSS. 

FROM  the  evening  of  Guide's  introduc- 
tii  n  to  Ladv  Diiir-morc  then-  seemed  to 
exist  between  them  n  stron?  fri-  nd-hr>.  He 
was  an  almost  con.-tant  visitor  :'t  lier  hotel, 
and  in  all  their  drives  and  exenr-ions  oc- 
cupied a  seat  in  her  ,  Florence 
;i.nl  hi',  too,  seemed  net  arewe  i<>  e;Hi  oth- 
ci's  society.  She  commanded,  ad vi.-ed,  pet- 
ted, and  blamed  him,  much  as  she  would 


74 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS 


have  done  a  brother.  It  was  always  Guido 
who  must  be  consulted  if  any  plan  of  amuse- 
ment was  proposed.  And  she  would  say, 
with  an  ah-  of  importance,  "  You  know 
it  is  no  use  to  decide  until  we  have  asked 
Signer  Guido  whether  he  will  accompany 
us." 

She  had  little  talent  for  music,  and  a 
rather  weak  voice ;  but  she  was  so  anxious 
to  sing,  that  with  constant  practice  and  the 
greatest  patience  on  the  part  of  Guido,  she 
was  becoming  a  tolerably  fair  musician,  and 
Lady  Dinsmore  seemed  to  favor  their  grow- 
ing interest  and  affection  for  each  other. 
Constance  was  secretly  glad  of  this  intimacy, 
although  it  sometimes  cost  her  a  pang ;  she 
feared  Guido  might  learn  to  love,  with  a 
deeper  feeling  than  friendship,  the  gentle 
oirl  whose  charms  were  so  constantly  before 
him.  Still  there  was  a  freedom  and  frank- 
ness in  their  preference,  a  brotherly  and  sis- 
terly sort  of  manner,  very  different  from  the 
shy  expressions  of  love. 

"I  wonder  if  Lady  Dinsmore  knows  the 
secret  of  his  birth,"  she  often  thought. 

One  day,  when  they  were  speaking  of 
Guido,  her  mind  was  set  at  rest  on  that 
subject  by  Lady  Dinsmore  herself,  who 
said,  "  It  is  unaccountable  the  interest  I  feel 
in  this  young  man.  How  I  should  like  to  know 
the  history  of  his  life !  I  have  tried,  but  in 
vain,  to  induce  him  to  speak  of  his  past. 
It  is  a  subject  evidently  painful  to  him,  and 
which  he  always  avoids.  Has  he  ever 
spoken  of  himself  to  you,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Never,"  replied  Constance,  "  but  once, 
and  then  he  said  he  had  not  a  relation  in 
the  world  that  he  knew  of." 

"  How  strange ! "  replied  Lady  Dinsmore, 
musingly.  And  then  Constance  changed 
the  conversation.  She  could  not  bring  her- 
self to  repeat  the  vulgar  gossip  she  had  heard 
from  Mrs.  Parlby  on  the  night  of  the  concert. 

One  morning  Lady  Dinsmore  ordered  the 
carriage  and  went  out  alone,  after  telling 
Florence  that  if  Constance  and  Mrs.  Tre- 
maine  called  for  her  she  might  drive  with 
them,  as  she  should  be  absent  some  time. 
She  ordered  her  footman  to  stop  at  the  near- 
est flower-shop,  and  there  she  selected  an 
exquisite  wreath  of  white  lilies  and  purple 
campanula. 

"  Drive  to  the  Campo  Santo,"  she  said,  in 
a  quivering  voice,  as  the  servant  laid  it  on 
the  empty  seat  of  the  carriage. 

When  she  reached  the  gate  she  alighted, 
and,  after  exchanging  a  few  words  with  the 
custodian,  she  desired  the  servants  to  re- 
main until  she  returned.  Taking  the  wreath 
in  her  hand,  she  crossed  the  large  square, 
with  a  slow,  weary  step,  toward  the  chapel, 
and  passed  into  the  cemetery  alone.  She 
stood  for  a  moment,  looking  around  with  a 
bewildered,  undecided  air,  and  then  said, 
"  How  all  is  changed  here !  But  it  must 


be  on  this  side ;  yes,  I  am  sure  it  is  on  this 
side,  near  that  tall  cypress." 

She  threaded  her  way  among  the  little 
black  wooden  crosses,  decorated  with  faded 
garlands  and  the  many  tawdry  offerings  of 
the  poor  to  their  cherished  dead,  never  stop- 
ping until  she  reached  the  foot  of  the  tall 
cypress,  near  which  was  the  object  of  her 
search.  Was  it  a  stately  monument  ?  No  ; 
only  a  little  cross,  a  nameless  little  marble 
cross,  over  a  child's  grave. 

She  fell  on  her  knees  before  it,  and,  bury- 
ing her  face  in  her  hand?,  sobbed  audibly. 
She  remained  a  long  time  in  that  position, 
even  after  her  moans  of  grief  had  died  away 
into  silence.  Then,  gathering  some  wild- 
flowers  and  tangled  vine  from  the  little 
mound,  she  pressed  them  over  and  over  to 
her  lips,  murmuring  all  the  while,  "  O  my 
darling,  my  darling,  have  you  grown  weary 
with  waiting  for  me  ?  But  patience  !  I  shall 
come  to  you  soon."  She  laid  the  garland 
on  the  little  grave,  and,  placing  a  few  of 
the  wild-flowers  in  her  bosom,  stooped  and 
kissed  the  sod  as  tenderly  as  though  it  were 
confcious  of  her  love  and  sorrow.  Then 
she  arose  and  walked  slowly  away,  looking 
worn  and  weary,  £»ut  still  pausing  often  to 
cast  a  lingering  glance  at  the  little  cross 
glistening  in  the  sunlight. 

When  Florence  returned  from  her  drive 
she  found  her  mother  lying  on  the  sofa  in 
her  room,  the  blinds  closed,  and  a  handker- 
chief, wet  with  aromatic  vinegar,  bound  over 
her  temples. 

"  Are  you  ill,  darling  ? "  inquired  the 
affectionate  girl,  as  she  knelt  by  her  side 
and  kissed  her  tenderly. 

Lady  Dinsmore  drew  her  daughter  to  her 
almost  convulsively,  and,  laying  her  hand 
on  her  shoulder,  replied,  "  Not  really  ill, 
my  dear,  only  tired  and  nervous  ;  but  leave 
me  alone.  I  am  better  alone." 

As  Florence  softly  closed  the  door  she 
said  to  herself,  "What  can  be  the  matter 
with  this  darling  mamma  ?  She  has  seemed 
a  little  strange  ever  since  she  came  to 
Italy." 

One  evening  Mrs.  Tremaine  and  Con- 
stance were  walking  back  and  forth  in  the 
moonlight  on  the  balcony,  engaged  in  a  con- 
fidential chat,  when  Florence  burst  out  upon 
them.  , 

"  Mamma  is  in  the  drawing-room  with 
Signer  Guido  and  Mr.  Carnegie ;  we  are 
on  our  way  to  the  Coliseum,  and  have 
called  for  you  to  accompany  us." 

"  O,  how  delightful !  "  exclaimed  Helen ; 
"  but  you  must  wait  until  the  Prince  comes. 
I  told  him  I  should  be  at  home  this  evening. 
However,  he  will  he  very  glad  to  make  one 
of  the  party,  and  the  more  (he  merrier !  " 

"  O,  there  is  plenty  of  time  ! "  replied  Flor- 
ence ;  "  the  view  is  the  finest  when  the 
moon  is  at  a  certain  height." 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


75 


They  all  entered  the  drawing-room  to- 
gether. Constance  had  not  seen  Guido  since 
the  night  of  the  ball,  as,  for  some  reason, 
he  had  asked  to  be  excused  from  giving  her 
a  lesson  on  the  usual  day.  When  she  looked 
at  him  she  was  startled  by  the  change  in 
his  face.  He  was  paler  than  ever  before  ; 
his  eyelids  red  and  swollen,  as  though  with 
sleepless  nights  and  weeping,  and  there  was 
such  an  expression  of  subdued  sorrow  around 
his  mouth  that  her  heart  ached  for  him. 
She  spoke  gently,  asking  him  if  he  were  ill, 
that  he  hail  omitted  her  lesson  the  day 
before. 

His  face  lighted  up  a  little,  and  he 
replied,  "  No,  not  ill  exactly,  only  a  little 
weak  and  tired.  In  fact,"  he  said,  lowering 
his  voice,  "  I  thought  it  was  better  not  to 
come  yesterday." 

Poor  Guido !  he  was  suffering  the  pangs 
and.  torments  of  jealousy.  Since  the  night 
of  the  ball  he  had  scarcely  eaten  or  slept ; 
and  all  because  Constance  had  smiled  on  the 
iju'inlia  no'jile.  If  she  had  known  the  cause 
of  his  sadness,  her  heart  would  have  ached 
less,  and  she  would  not  have  made  herself 
miserable  with  wondering  what  could  ail  him. 

A  half-hour  afterward,  the  Prince  came, 
and  they  started  for  the  Coliseum.  It  was  one 
of  those  nights  too  exquisite  to  describe ; 
a  full  moon  rode  in  splendor  through  the  un- 
clouded heavens ;  and  as  they  entered  the 
vast  and  gloomy  ruin,  they  were  all  impressed 
with  its  majesty  as  they  had  never  been 
before. 

They  sat  down  on  the  steps  that  lead  to 
the  cross  which  Christianity  has  erected  in 
the  broad  arena,  to  mark  the  spot  where 
her  noble  champions  perished  nearly  two 
thousand  years  ago.  Then  the  moon  did 
not  knk  down  on  rent  and  ruin,  darkness 
and  silence ;  but  the  yellow  sun  glared  all 
day  over  the  wild,  restless  Roman  populace, 
unawed  by  the  gorgeous  splendor  of  the 
court,  and  untouched  by  the  agony  of  the 
quivering  lip,  the  ghastly  brow,  and  writhing 
limbs  of  the  dying  martyr. 

Guido  and  the  Prince  knelt  to  kiss  the 
cross,  as  is  the  custom,  hoping  thereby  to 
gain  an  indulgence  ;  while  the  others,  not 
quite  understanding  the  motive  that  prompt- 
ed them,  did  the  same ;  perhaps  each  felt 
it  not  inappropriate  to  offer  that  mark  of 
reverence  to  the  emblem  of  the  Christian 
religion. 

As  Constance  arose  from  her  knees  she 
met  the  eyes  of  Guido  fixed  upon  her  with 
a  strange  earnestness,  but  suddenly,  with  a 
sigh,  he  turned  away,  and  walked  by  the 
side  of  Florence. 

They  found  a  guide  with  a  flaming  torch, 
who  conducted  them  through  the  gloomy 
vaulted  corridors  to  the  upper  pnrap<'t. 

"  What  a  ghostly  place  !  "  said  Lady  Dins- 
more,  who  with  Madame  Landel  and  Mr. 


Carnegie  followed  the  guide,  while  Florence 
walked  behind  with  Guido.  Constance 
was  with  Mrs.  Tremaine  and  the  Prince. 
She  was  pale  and  silent,  and  her  eyes 
scarcely  left  the  two  who  were  in  advance 
of  her.  She  heard  Florence  say,  "  I  am 
afraid  here,  it  is  so  dark  and  mysterious"; 
and,  like  a  timid  child,  she  slipped  her  hand 
into  Guide's,  who  drew  it  through  his  arm 
!  with  a  smile  of  deep  tenderness,  saying, 
|  "  Do  not  fear,  I  will  protect  you  against 
I  every  evil  that  haunts  these  silent  chambers ; 
they  are  not  real,  they  are  only  imaginary, 
and  my  courage  is  equal  to  a  host  of  such 
adversaries." 

Florence  smiled  confidingly  as  she  clung 
to  him,  and  Constance's  heart  beat  heavily 
as  she  thought,  "  I  have  been  mistaken,  it 
is  she  he  loves.  How  foolish  I  have  been  to 
imagine  he  cared  for  me  ! " 

When  they  had  passed  through  the 
;  damp  gloomy  galleries  lighted  only  by 
|  the  red  glare  of  the  torch,  and  came  out 
!  suddenly  on  to  the  moonlit  terrace,  all  ex- 
claimed involuntarily,  "  How  lovely ! "  For 
I  beneath  them  lay  Rome,  —  ancient  and 
modern,  —  bathed  in  a  flood  of  silvery 
light,  the  harsh  rugged  outlines  softened 
and  blended.  The  dusty  red  tiles  and 
gray  time-stained  walls,  touched  by  the 
mystic  white  beams,  seemed  a  city  of  marble 
palaces.  Far  away  the  outline  of  the  Al- 
ban  and  Sabine  mountains  rose  dark  and 
solemn  against  the  clear  sky.  The  low 
level  sweep  of  the  camparjna  was  dotted  here 
;  and  there  with  dark  masses  of  ruins ;  and  the 
long  line  of  crumbling  aqueducts  wound 
like  a  funeral  procession,  the  first  hooded 
mourners  gliding  from  the  sight  into  dis- 
tance and  darkness.  Tall  cypresses  stood 
like  grim  sentinels  over  the  tombs  of  the 
dead  kings,  and  a  hoary  pine  raised  its 
crowned  head  until  it  seemed  to  touch  the 
limpid  sky.  From  the  orange-trees  and 
acacias  that  wave  among  the  ruined  pala- 
ces of  the  Caesars  came  the  long,  mournful 
hoot  of  the  owl  mingled  with  the  s\vcct, 
thrilling  strain  of  the  nightingale.  In  the 
arena  below,  the  moonlight  glistened  on  the 
steel  helmets  and  pikes  of  the  motionless 
sentinels.  And  the  people,  walking  back 
and  forth,  or  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  the 
cross,  looked  like  puppets  performing  a 
pantomime.  The  long  trailing  vines  and 
branches  in  the  broken  arches  waved  and 
beckoned  like  phantom  arms  from  the  dis- 
tance. 

"  Will  you  not  sing,  Signer  Guido  ? " 
exclaimed  Florence. 

"  Yes,  do  sing  something  for  us,"  added 
Lady  Dinsmore  ;  "  pathetic  music  would  be 
so  effective  now." 

"  Do  not  let  it  be  sad,"  said  Constance  ; 
"  let  it  be  triumphant,  —  a  Laudate  Domir 
num,  for  example.*" 


76 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


"  Or  go  down  into  one  of  those  subter- 
ranean vaults  and  sing  a  De  Profuudi.-;" 
laughed  Mrs.  Tremaine. 

"  No,"  said  Guido,  "  I  will  go  up  nearer 
heaven  and  chant  a  Jubilate  Deo  !  " 

He  turned  away,  and  in  a  moment  ap- 
peared on  the  upper  parapet,  where  he 
stood,  his  tall,  dark-robed  figure  clearly 
outlined  against  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky. 
Waving  his  hand  to  them,  his  glorious  voice 
broke  forth  in  the  sublime  Cantate  Domino 
of  Cherubmi.  As  the  deep  thrilling  tones 
fell  on  their  ears  they  could  distinctly  hear 
the  exulting  words,  "  With  his  "own  right 
hand  and  his  holy  arm  hath  he  gotten  him- 
self the  victory." 

It  seemed  as  though  the  triumphant 
spirit  of  some  young  martyr  had  returned 
for  a  moment  to  review  the  scene  cf  his 
earthly  passion  and  suffering,  and  was  again 
repeating  to  the  listening  angels  the  story 
of  his  conquest  over  sin  and  death. 

Lady  Dinsmcre  fell  pn  her  knees,  and, 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  wept 
silently.  The  others  stocd  with  towed 
heads  and  subdued  hearts,  listening  intently 
until  the  last  tones  died  away  into  the  still 
air. 

The  emotion  that  Constance  experienced 
was  so  overpowering  that  she  felt  the  need 
of  being  alone  fcr  a  ic-w  moments.  Turning 
away,  she  walked  to  the  end  of  the  terrace, 
and,  stepping  into  an  interior  arch,  fhe  sat 
down  on  a  broken  column,  and  fell  into  a 
deep  revery. 

First,  there  passed  before  her  mental 
vision  a  long  procession  of  captives,  with 
gloomy  brows  and  compressed  lips,  the  fires 
of  hate  and  scorn  burning  under  their  down- 
cast lids,  their  hands  fettered,  their  heads 
bent  on  their  laboring  breasts,  and  their 
hearts  filled  with  the  anguished  meir.cry  cf 
the  free,  glad  life  on  the  Judeean  hills  and 
amid  the  green  groves  of  Olivet.  Then  a 
vast  multitude,  naked,  emaciated,  worn 
with  fever  and  famine,  scorched  with  the  ; 
burning  sun,  toiling  under  the  cruel  lash  of  j 
a  taskmaster,  and  longing  ever  with  irre-  j 
pressible  desire  for  one  cooling  draught  of  j 
the  limpid  stream  that  rippled  through  the 
vale  of  Kedrcn.  The  old  man  with  the 
hoary  beard  on  his  breast  had  been  a  pa- 
triarch in  those  days;  and  the  youth  with 
the  form  like  Apollo  had  sat  at  his  feet, 
and  listened  to  his  teaching.  Now,  chained 
together,  they  were  hewers  of  stone  under 
a  foreign  sky,  slaves  to  the  proud  Emperor 
Flavius,  who  sat  in  his  golden  palace 
overlooking  the  vast  arena  where  they 
toiled  and  languished.  But  see !  the  old 
man  sinks  under  his  labor;  his  limbs  refuse 
to  bear  the  weary  body  ;  the  day  is  nearly  | 
done,  and  his  task  unfinished.  He  tries  to 
struggle  to  his  feet ;  the  terrible  fear  of  the 
torture,  and  the  wild  beasts,  with  gleaming 


teeth  and  bloody  fangs,  urge  him  to  one 
more  effort.  Suddenly  before  him  appears 
a  youth  clad  in  the  rich  robes  of  a  lloman 
noble,  with  the  signet  of  his  birth  upon  his 
white  hand.  "  Rest,  father,  rest,"  he  says, 
"  and  I  will  labor  and  complete  thy  task.'' 

Then  the  shout  arises  on  the  hot  air, 
"  Behold  the  Christian  !  take  him,  and  bind 
him,  and  plunge  him  into  the  darkest  cave." 
"  Wait,"  cries  the  youth,  with  divine  en- 
thusiasm beaming  from  his  brow ;  "  wait 
until  1  have  completed  the  old  man's  task, 
and  then  thou  shalt  do  with  me  as  thou 
wilt.  It  is  true  I  am  a  Christian,  and  I  am 
ready  to  die  fcr  my  faith." 
•  It  is  high  neon,  and  the  sun  locks  down 
on  the  proudest  pile  ever  raised  by  human 
ambition  and  dedicated  to  tcrture  and  crime. 
In  tl:e  j^rand  Pcdium  sits  the  Emperor,  sur-; 
rcunded  by  his  ccurt,  in  all  the  pcmp  and 
magnificence  of  that  pericd.  Above  and 
below  are  a  vast  crowd,  with  eager,  excited 
faces  ;  the  wild  beasts  in  Ihtir  der.s,  waiting 
fcr  their  prey,  sre  cot  mere  cruel  and  fero- 
cious. Ihe  sweetest  pleasure  to  them  is  to 
beheld  the  ccmbat,  the  peril,  the  incertitude 
cf  tie  struggle.  —  the  bleed,  the  aicny,  and 
(he  death.  A  wild  joy  spaikles  in  each  eye. 
Eager,  palpitating,  impatient,  they  leek  to- 
ward the  grating  that  ccnfnes  the  savage 
panther,  as  if  they  tco  wculd  drirk  the  LIce.d 
so tccn to  redden  the  arena.  Suddenly  there 
is  a  crash  cf  music  and  a  shout  like  the 
vcice  cf  many  waters. 

"Beheld  him  who.ccmes  to  die!"  A 
youth  beautiful  as  the  sun  cf  the  mcrning ; 
en  his  lip  is  a  sn:i!e  of  eternal  peace,  and 
his  brow  beaming  with  the  lijht  of  divine 
enthusiasm.  He  locks  far  bey  end;  he  ;ccs 
net  the  clamorous  multitude ;  he  bears  not 
their  cries,  nor  the  roar  cf  the  wild  beast 
that  springs  upon  him.  No ;  fcr  tLe  soul  is 
so  rapt  in  the  vision  cf  heaven  that  he 
seems  to  have  left  the  pain  of  death  far  be- 
hind. A  mcment  of  ageny,  a  brief  struggle, 
and  all  is  over.  The  bcely  cf  the  ycung 
martyr  is  thrust  into  the  ^j.aiiai'iiii:,  and  cne 
more  name  is  added  to  the  Icng  list  of 
those  who  have  come  cut  cf  gn.at  tribu- 
lation. 

And  to  the  scenes  enacted  there  for  the 
gratification  of  a  depraved  and  licentious 
monarch  followed  the  contrast  of  the  pres- 
ent. A  rude  wooden  cress  erected  over  the 
spot  that  had  been  bathed  in  the  blocd  of 
its  defenders,  —  a  prccessicn  of  barefooted 
Capuchin  monks,  followed  by  a  few  pale, 
sad  Sisters  of  Charity,  paupers,  ard  stran- 
gers, is  all  the  ceremony  that  tells  cf  its  dedi- 
cation to  the  Prince  of  peace. 

Such   were    the    thoughts    that     ] 
through  the  mind  of  Constance  while  sl.e  sat 
there,  too  absorbed  to  notice  that  the  vciccs 
near  her  had  ceased,  and  that  s-he  was  alone. 

Suddenly  she  started  up  and  turned  to- 


WOVEX   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


77 


ward  the  spot  where  she  had  left  her  friends ; 
but  they  were  gone,  and  not  a  person  was 
on  the  terraces,  above  or  below.  She 
called,  but  no  one  replied.  "  They  have 
gone,"  she  thought ;  "  they  have  forgotten 
me,  or  they  think  I  am  with  Mrs.  Tremaine 
and  the  Prince,  who  are  always  behind  the 
othars.  I  must  remain  here  alone,  or  I  must 
go  through  those  terrible  galleries  until  I 
reach  the  door  by  which  we  entered.  There 
I  can  perhaps  make  the  sentinels  hear  me." 
Still  she  shuddered  and  shrank  from  de- 
scending the  long  flights  of  broken  steps 
that  led  to  the  dark  caves.  But  she  was  not 
a  coward,  and  the  necessity  was  great ;  so 
she  nerved  herself  to  the  trial,  and  went 
down  into  the  mysterious  darkness  below, 
She  hurried  along  a  few  paces,  the  silence 
broken  only  by  the  unearthly  echoes  of  her 
light  foDtsteps.  The  dense  darkness,  peo- 
pled with  imaginary  horrors,  appalled  her. 
She  felt  she  could  go  no  farther,  and  turned 
to  regain  the  steps  by  which  she  had  de- 
scended ;  but  in  her  fright  and  confusion  she 
went  in  the  wrong  direction,  and,  after  grop- 
ing a  few  moments  helplessly  in  the  dark, 
she  was  convinced  that  she  was  indeed  lost. 
"  If  they  return  for  me  now,  they  will  never 
find  me,  for  my  cries  will  never  penetrate 
beyond  those  thick  walls,  and  I  cannot  hear 
them  if  they  call  me.  O  my  God,  I  shall  go 
mad  if  I  have  to  remain  here  until  morning  !  " 
She  thought  of  all  the  dark  stories  she  had 
hear.l,  of  these  caves  being  the  haunts  of  rob- 
bers and  assassins.  From  all  the  black  vaults 
a  thousand  shadowy  forms  seemed  to  start,  a 
thousand  unearthly  voices  seemed  to  sound 
in  her  eavs,  and  a  thousand  mysterious  foot- 
steps seemed  to  hasten  toward  her.  She 
covered  her  face,  and  leaned  half  fainting 
against  the  damp  stona  of  the  cave,  praying 
and  weeping  convulsively.  Suddenly  she 
knew  she  heard  real  footsteps,  and  the  quick 
breathing  of  some  one  hastening  toward  her. 
A  moment  more,  with  a  cry  of  relief  and 
joy,  unconscious  of  what  she  was  doing,  she 
threw  herself  on  the  breast  of  Guido. 

"  Thank  God  that  I  have  found  you !  "  he 
said,  pressing  her  to  his  heart  and  kissing 
her  tearful  eyes  and  quivering  lips  over  and 
over.  She  was  weeping  and  trembling  in 
his  arms  like  a  terrified  child,  and  there  in 
the  gloom  and  darkness  he  wiped  away  her 
tears,  and  soothed  her  with  every  loving, 
tender  word  his  gentle  heart  dictated. 

When  she  was  calmer  he  said,'li  Come  dar- 
ling, let  us  hasten  to  Lady  Dinsmore ;  she  is 
in  a  terrible  sta'e  of  anxiety ;  we  thought 
you  were  with  Mrs.  Tremaine  and  the  Prince 
until  we  all  reached  the  carriage,  then  we 
missed  you  for  the  first  time.  The  thought 
occurred  to  me,  while  the  guide  and  Mr. 
Carnegie  went  in  another  direction,  that 
you  might  be  at  the  other  end  of  the  ter- 
race, and  so  I  was  hastening  thers.  I  can- 


not tell  you  what  I  suffered,"  he  said,  as 
they  came  out  into  the  moonlight.  "  I 
feared  you  might  have  fallen  down  some  of 
those  dark  holes,  or  that  the  edge  of  the 
crumbling  walls  had  given  way  under  your 
feet.  Let  me  look  at  you  for  a  moment,  to 
assure  myself  that  you  are  not  hurt."  Tak- 
ing her  hands  in  his,  and  press-ing  them  to 
his  heart,  he  gazed  long  and  tenderly  into 
her  face  with  an  expression  she  never  forgot, 
saying  earnestly,  "  Thank  God !  you  are 
safe";  then,  drawing  her  arm  through  hi.-, 
he  gently  led  her  down  the  long  steps  and 
through  the  silent  galleries  out  into  the  calm 
night,  under  the  stars  and  the  glorious  moon. 

The  ladies  were  sitting  in  the  carriage, 
waiting  anxiously.  Alter  many  questions 
and  explanations,  Guido  went  in  search  of 
Mr.  Carnegie  and  the  Prince,  and  as  they 
drove  away  the  bells  rang  out  the  hour  of 
midnight. 

"  What  an  adventure ! "  said  Florence.  "  I 
am  sure  you  rather  liked  it;  you  look  as 
calm  and  composed  as  though  we  had  not 
been  suffering  the  most  excruciating  anguish 
for  the  last  hour." 

Constance  assured  them  she  was  dread- 
fully frightened  at  the  time,  but  as  it  was 
over,  and  she  was  safe,  she  did  not  feel  in- 
clined to  be  miserable  at  the  remembrance. 
On  the  contrary,  although  she  did  not  ex- 
press it,  she  felt  rather  happy ;  for  she  still 
seemed  to  feel  the  tender  kisses  of  Guido  on 
her  lips  and  eyes.  But  before  she  reached 
home,  a  feeling  of  mingled  uncertainty  and 
anger  took  possession  of  her.  He  could  not 
love  her,  for  even  in  that  moment  of  joy, 
when  he  had  pressed  her  to  his  heart  and 
kissed  her,  he  had  not  told  her  so ;  no,  no, 
he  could  not  love  her,  or  he  would  have  told 
her,  and  yet  he  had  dared  to  kiss  her.  Her 
cheek  burned  with  indignation,  and  she  re- 
solved to  surround  herself  with  a  colder 
mantle  of  pride  than  ever. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE   TIDE   THAT   BEARS   US   ON. 

nPHE  current  that  bears  us  on  whether  we 
JL  will  or  not,  that  irresistibly  lom-s  us 
down  the  stream  of  time  to  the  broad  ex- 
panse of  unexplored  seas,  oi'ten  wrenches 
from  our  unwilling  hands  the  gods  we  have 
clasped  with  fondest  idolatry,  and  tears 
from  our  ruined  lives  the  hours  we  hava 
worshipped,  yet  only  half  enjoyed,  because, 
we  have  felt  they  were  pas.-ing  awa\  for- 
ever. Often  when  the  storms  of  pas>ion 
and  anguish  tear  and  shiver  our  souls,  like 
frail  boats  in  a  tempest,  we  look  ihr  be- 
yond where  we  see  a  calm  and  smiling 
haven  which  we  fain  would  reach,  and  long 


78 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


for  the  moments  to  pass  which  bear  us  on- 
ward too  slowly  for  our  impatient  souls. 
But  sometimes  the  waves  go  in  before  us, 
and  our  trail  harks  are  shattered  on  the  in- 
hospitable shores.  Then  we  look  back  and 
wonder  why  Ave  had  longed  to  leave  the 
sale!  v  of  the  broad  seas.  Again  we  stand 
shrinking  and  trembling  under  the  shade 
of  the  green  trees  of  life,  looking  over  a 
wide  desert  before  us.  The  sun  scorches ; 
the  sand  is  hot  and  dry ;  there  is  no  shadow 
of  a  great  rock,  no  feathery  palms,  no  green 
oasis.  We  dread  to  leave  the  cooling  shade ; 
the  music  of  the  rippling  stream  sounds  in 
our  ears ;  the  fragrant  vines  caress  us,  and 
the  soft  breeze  and  the  singing  birds  woo 
us  to  remain.  Yet;  pilgrim  like,  we  set  forth, 
leaning  on  our  staff,  with  aching  heart  and 
many  longing  looks  behind.  Perchance 
beyond  the  arid  expanse  may  be  other  val- 
leys as  still  and  fair  that  we  know  not  of; 
but  yet  our  souls  desire  what  we  have  left. 
No  streams  can  be  so  sweet  as  those  at 
which  we  have  drank,  no  shade  so  refresh- 
ing as  that  which  has  sheltered  us ;  no 
music  like  the  birds  that  sang  in  the 
boughs,  no  fragrant  flowers  like  those  that 
have  bent  beneath  our  caressing  hand.  We 
have  rested  on  the  breast  of  Love,  and  he 
has  fanned  us  with  his  wings  until  the 
faint  spark  has  kindled  to  a  divine  flame, 
which  burns  and  consumes  long  after  we 
have  lost  sight  of  the  glowing  vision  ;  and 
our  worn  and  weary  companions  seem  but 
beasts  of  burden  after  we  have  feasted  with 
the  gods.  O  unquiet  heart,  longing  and  thirst- 
ing, knowest  thou  not  there  is  a  paradise  for 
thee,  fairer  than  the  Eden  thou  hast  left  ? 

One  day  Mrs.  Tremaine  stood  on  the 
balcony,  leaning  her  elbows  on  the  stone 
balustrade,  and  resting  her  chin  on  her 
open  palm.  Before 'her  lay  the  sunlit  ter- 
races of  the  Fincio,  and  over  all  beamed  a 
blue  and  cloudless  sky.  Yet  she  noticed 
nothing  of  the  beauty  around  her,  for  her 
eyes  were  fixed  on  vacancy,  and  her  lips 
compressed  as  though  she  were  absorbed  in 
deep  and  painful  thought. 

"  What  are  you  dreaming  of,  Helen  ?  " 

She  started  and  turned.  Mr.  Carnegie 
stood  at  her  side.  Holding  out  her  hand, 
the  sad  look  passed  away  from  her  face,  and 
she  said,  smiling,  ''  I  was  wondering  if  those 
white  pigeons  lying  on  yonder  roof  in  the 
sun  were  not  happier  than  I." 

"  What !  are  you  not  happy  ?  "  he  in- 
quired anxiously,  as  he  drew  her  arm 
through  his,  pacing  slowly  back  and  forth. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  looking  him  steadily 
in  the  face,  while  the  tears  filled  her  eyes,  — 
"  no,  I  am  very  miserable." 

"  Poor  child !  Is  it  possible  ?  I  thought 
you  were  happy.  I  would  give  ten  years  of 
my  life  to  save  you  one  hour's  sorrow,"  he 
said,  with  deep  feeling. 


"  Truly  ?  do  you  love  me  so  deeply  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

She  looked  into  his  face  searchingly,  and 
then  said,  in  a  weary  voice,  "  I  am  so  glad 
to  know  that  you  really  love  me.  It  will  be 
a  grea*  comfort  to  me  later;  the  time  is 
coining  when  I  shall  need  a  strong,  true  love 
like  yours  to  help  me  bear  the  burden  of 
life." 

"  Why  do  you  speak  so  despondingly  ? 
What  do  you  foresee  ?  " 

She  pointed  upward.  "  Look  at  that  little 
cloud.  It  is  very  small  and  light,  but  hidden 
in  it  are  thunderbolts ;  it  will  spread  and 
grow  black  and  lurid,  and  cover  all  the 
smiling  heavens.  Then  the  tempest  will 
burst ;  but  you  will  be  my  refuge,  my  shelter, 
will  you  not?"  and  she  clung  to  him  as 
though  she  already  needed  his  protection 
against  some  real  danger. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "  while  my  life 
lasts  it  is  yours;  only  give  me  the  right, 
Helen,  —  only  give  me  the  right." 

"  Hush  !  "  she  said,  while  a  gleam  of  anger 
shot  from  her  blue  eyes ;  "  do  not  speak  of 
that,  do  not  repeat  the  old  story  again. 
Remember  what  you  promised  me  in  Paris," 
and,  turning  from  him,  she  went  hastily  into 
the  house. 

Mr.  Carnegie  stood  a  long  time  lost  in  sad 
thought,  wondering  how  this  would  all  end. 
At  last  he  said  softly  to  himself,  "  I  will 
never  speak  of  it  again  to  her,  but  I  shall 
always  love  her  the  same.  My  heart  is  full 
of  the  same  infinite  love  and  tenderness, 
and  I  can  wait.  Poor  child  !  she  is  suffering 
now,  and  she  does  not  understand  her  own 
heart;  I  will  not  annoy  her  by  speaking 
of  it  again.  By  and  by,  when  she  is  cured 
of  this  misplaced  attachment,  she  will  turn 
to  my  heart  for  a  refuge,  as  she  has  said 
herself,  and  then  she  will  prove  the  strength 
and  unselfishness  of  a  true  love.  Yes,  I  can 
wait." 

Poor  man  !  he  fed  his  hungry  heart  with 
chafF.  He  had  yet  to  learn  that  when  the 
soul  has  once  been  touched  with  the  di- 
vine flame,  like  Orpheus  it  will  follow  its 
Eurydice  even  into  the  Stygian  realm,  and 
if  the  cruel  Fates  forbid  their  union,  it  will 
sit  pining  apart,  singing  its  complain! s  to 
dumb  nature,  which  is  often  more,  sym- 
pathizing than  the  dull  cold  heart  of  man. 
No  other  love  will  fill  the  void  ;  no  other 
can  hold  intercourse  with  the  lonely,  isolated 
soul.  It  desires  and  pines  for  one  voice  only, 
one  smile,  one  touch  that  will  draw  nu-.sic 
from  a  chord  silent  to  all  others.  I\Iore 
than  blest  are  those  whom  the  gods  love, 
and  unite  early  in  the  Elysian  fields,  where 
they  may  roam  together  throughout  eternity. 

It  is  truly  a  wearisome  and  intricate,  task 
to  follow  through  all  its  perplexing  windings 
the  vagaries  of  the  human  heart.  Some- 
times we  feel  a  sort  of  impatient  pain  be- 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


cause  those  we  love  cannot  shield  them- 
selves from  suffering.  If  they  have  been 
wounded  once,  and  that  wound  has  healed, 
why  should  they  allow  the  dart  to  pierce 
them  the  second  time?  Such  thoughts 
passed  through  the  mind  of  Madame  .Lan- 
del,  as  she  noticed  with  anxiety  that  Con- 
stance's old  restlessness  was  returning.  She 
was  no  longer  the  calm,  happy  girl  she  had 
been  during  the  first  weeks  of  their  arrival 
in  Rome,  A  constant  change  of  purpose;  a 
constant  der-ire  to  do  something  different, 
to  visit  some  new  scene,  to  find  some  new 
excitement ;  a  feverish  restlessness,  that 
would  not  allow  her  to  sit  quietly  with  her 
books  and  drawing  ;  neither  did  her  hither- 
to beloved  study  of  music  afford  her  any 
enjoyment,  it  seemed  to  have  lost  its  charm. 
Suddenly,  only  giving  as  a  reason  that  she 
was  tired,  she  discontinued  her  lessons,  and 
scarcely  ever  sang.  She  avoided  as  much 
as  possible  the  society  of  Lady  Dinsmore 
and  Florence,  because  Guido  spent  most  of 
his  time  with  them.  She  passed  whole  days 
in  the  early  part  of  the  spring  wandering 
through  the  picture-galleries  with  Madame 
Landel. 

One  day  she  sat  in  the  Corsini  Palace 
before  those  three  marvellous  pictures,  the 
Ecce  Homos  of  Guido,  Guercino,  and  Carlo 
Dolce,  studying  with  sad,  tearful  eyes  each 
impressive  face  of  the  dying  Christ. 

'•  Tell  me,  please,"  she  said,  turning  to 
Madame  Landel,  "which  picture  do  you 
prefer ?  " 

"  I  can  scarcely  explain  my  impressions ; 
but  say,  my  dear,  what  are  yours  ?  " 

"  I  find,"  she  said,  "  in  the  head  of  the 
Guereino,  too  much  of  human  suffering.  The 
Christ  is  a  dying  gladiator  who  only  feels 
the  agony  of  physical  pain.  The  thorns 
pierce  and  fret  the  quivering  brow,  and  the 
whole  strong  nature  seems  about  giving  way 
under  the  accumulation  of  bodily  suffering. 
The  Carlo  Dolce  is  the  type  of  an  exh  i 
worn  man,  weak  and  feeble,  with  infinite 
sweetness  and  patience  in  every  line  of  his 
almost  effeminate  face.  He  seems  to  say, 
'  See  how  lamb-like  I  bear  my  buffeting, 
my  scourging,  my  thorns  ! '  The  weary  head 
sinks  on  the  quiet  breast;  beneath  the  down- 
cast lids  gather  the  tears  of  tender  sorrow  ; 
he  bows,  he  succumbs;  in  unappealing  sub- 
mission to  the  Divine  will.  Now  look  at  the 
Guido,  feebler  perhaps  in  drawing,  poor  in 
color ;  but  the  divinity  of  the  God-man  is 
stamped  in  every  line.  He  does  not  feel 
the  piercing  thorns,  the  nails,  the  spear. 
The  firm,  but  sweetly  suffering  lips  seem  to 
say,  '  I  die  to  atone  for  the  sins  of  the  world. 
On  me  rests  the  burden  of  every  agonized 
human  heart,  in  all  time  past,  in  all  time  to 
come.  I  die  as  a  man,  but  I  endure  as  a 
God.'  The  artist  has  not  tried  to  touch  the 
coarser  nature  with  streaming  blood  and 


1  quivering  wounds ;  he  has  striven  to  portray 
rather  the  mental  than  the  phy>ical  siilTcr- 
ing  of  the  Son  of  (Jod,  and  in  that  In-  has 
succeeded  while  the  other  two  have  failed. 
Therefore  to  me.  although  the  Guercino  is 
the  most  forcible,  and  according  to  all  rules 
of  art  the  finest  picture,  yet  the  Guido  is 
beyond  comparison  the  most  powerful." 

"You  have  expressed  my  opinion,  dear, 
better  than  I  could  have  done  myself,  al- 
though I  have  seldom  dared  disagree  with 
the  decision  of  competent  ciitics,  that  the 
Guercino  is  the  best  picture." 

"  The  best  is  not  what  appeals  to  the  eye, 
it  is  what  touches  the  heart.  Look  at  this 
ill-drawn  Virgin  of  Fra  Angelico,  —  gentle 
creature.  She  is  poor  and  ignorant,  -lie 
has  walked  over  the  rough  paths  of  li; 
hands  are  hard  with  toil ;  but  her  heart  is  as 
soft  and  innocent  as  the  mysterious  child 
upon  her  knee.  In  her  eye  is  an  expression 
of  Inly  awe  and  love,  on  her  lip  a  smile 
of  divine  sweetness  and  reserve.  What  a 
contrast  to  the  common  dark  woman,  with 
passionate  eyes,  and  hard  bold  face,  which 
Murillo  has  chosen  for  his  type  !  Verily  the 
man's  life  is  stamped  upon  his  work.  Fra 
Angelico  in  his  convent  cell,  without  an 
earthly  model,  working  from  the  ideal  he 
had  formed  in  his  pure  heart,  achieved  more 
than  Murillo  with  the  teaching  of  nearly 
three  centuries  of  improvement.  How  can 
a  man  whose  life  is  stained  by  contact  with 
the  world  select  for  his  model  a  type  of 
sensual  beauty,  and  leave  upon  his  picture, 
which  he  names  a  Madonna,  any  impress  of 
divine  purity  and  innocence  ?  " 

The  hours  spent  in  the  study  of  these 
creations  of  immortal  genius  were  the  most 
peaceful  Constance  experienced.  Scarcely 
a  day  passed  that  she  did  not  say  to  Madame 
Landel,  "  Let  us  go  to  some  gallery  for  a 
few  hours."  She  spent  much  time  at  St. 
Peter's  and  the  Vatican,  where  she  would 
gaze  with  enraptured  eyes  at  the  Trans- 
figuration, which  so  beautifully  combines  the 
touching  story  of  man's  impotence  and  help- 
less suffering  with  the  power  and  love  of 
God.  Or  she  would  wander,  with  a  sort  of 
aimlessness,  through  the  tapestried  halls 
and  pictured  stanze  of  the  immortal  ma~!er; 
oilen  too  preoccupied  with  her  own  sad 
thoughts  to  fully  understand  their  beauties. 
Sometimes  she  knelt  before  the  high  altar 
under  the  vast  dome,  and  raised  her  tearful 
eyes  to  the  pictured  saints  above,  as  though 
she  would  invoke  their  aid  to  help  her  bear 
the  burden  of  life,  which  at  times  w 
unendurable.  Again  she  would  bow  her 
head  in  self-abasement,  and  murmur,  ••  (Jod 
forgive  me  that  I  complain,  and  weakly 
suffer  this  passion  to  fill  all  my  lite.  (Jive 
me  strength  that  I  may  conquer  this 
love,  or  I  shall  sink  into  deeper  sorrow  and 
despair." 


80 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


No  one  but  Madame  Landel  dreamed 
of  the  struggle  that  was  passing  in  the 
poor  girl's  heart.  Outwardly  she  strove  to 
appear  happy,  and  in  the  presence  of  Guido, 
whom  she  avoided  as  much  as  possible,  she 
wore  her  visor  of  pride,  which  rendered  her 
face  inscrutable.  Still,  since  the  night  she 
had  thrown  herself,  half  unconscious  with 
terror,  into  his  arms,  Guido  had  been  hap- 
pier ;  he  felt  she  loved  him,  and  he  some- 
times dared  to  hope  that  she  might  yet  be 
his  wife.  The  deep  friendship  and  evident 
interest  of  Lady  Dinsmore  in  every  concern 
of  his  life  made  him  feel  that,  with  her  in- 
fluence in  his  favor,  even  the  disgrace  of  his 
birth  might  be  forgotten.  Still  he  was  too 
proud  and  sensitive  to  risk  the  displeasure 
of  Constance  by  a  proposal  that  she  might 
consider  presuming,  even  though  she  loved 
him.  He  did  not  know  that  love  eventually 
levels  all  barriers  and  distinctions,  ennobling 
the  object,  no  matter  how  unworthy. 

The  lovely  winter  months  passed  away, 
and  the  tide  of  time  bore  them  to  the  verge 
of  spring. 

Filomena  was  still  absent  on  her  useless 
quest.  Sometimes  Benedetto  showed  to 
Guido  an  ill-spelled  scrawl,  written  by  some 
public  scrivone,  in  which  she  would  express 
a  hope  that  in  the  next  town  cr  city  she 
might  find  or  hear  something  from  her 
child. 

A  letter  from  Mr.  Vandeleur  to  Constance, 
dated  Florence,  told  her  he  had  returned 
from  France,  where  he  had  failed  to  find 
any  trace  of  De  Villiers.  He  spoke  of  clouds 
already  darkening  the  political  horizon  of 
Italy;  and  said  that  the  murmuring  sea, 
and  the  murmuring  wind,  and  the  unquiet 
heart  of  man  all  joined  in  the  same  cry, 
"  It  is  time  some  one  died  for  Italy ! " 

"  I  cannot,"  he  said,  "  take  part  in  a 
struggle  that  will  only  rivet  anew  the  chains 
of  those  who  groan  in  bondage ;  for  Italy 
free,  for  Italy  a  republic,  I  would  gladly 
give  my  worthless  life.  Where  the  powers 
of  darkness  struggle  together,  there  will  be 
suffering  humanity,  and  there  is  my  place, 
independent  of  party,  power,  or  faction.  I 
must  be  ready  to  alleviate  pain,  to  nurse 
the  sick  and  wounded,  to  aid  the  poor,  to 
feed  the  hungry,  to  put  the  cup  of  cold 
water  to  the  dying  lips,  whether  it  be  of 
friend  or  foe.  The  reparation  I  would 
make  to  one  who  I  fear  is  lost  to  me  for- 
ever, I  must  make  to  all  mankind.  Pray 
for  me,  my  cherished  friend,  my  good  angel, 
that  God  may  accept  it." 

Constance  wept  when  she  read  the  letter, 
and  thought,  "  While  this  man,  to  whom  I 
pointed  out  the  path  of  duty,  is  heroically 
trying  to  conquer  self,  and  atone  for  a  past 
sin,  I  am  idly  folding  my  hands  and  luxuri- 
ating in  a  sorrow  that  is  unworthy  of  me  " 
Then  she  took  a  sudden  whim,  as  Mrs. 


Tremaine  said,  to  become  a  ministering 
angel ;  for,  at  the  risk  ot'taking  the  lever,  she 
dragged  poor  Madame  Landol  into  horribly 
dirty  lanes  and  alleys  to  seek  for  the  suffering 
poor,  which  she  ibund  in  abundance ;  sent 
bread  and  wine,  soup  and  meat;  gave 
away  unheedingly  any  number  of  baiocchi 
to  the  miserable  herd  of  ragazzi  that  sur- 
rounded her;  and  one  day  astonished  the 
woman  who  clipped  dogs  on  the  Spanish 
steps  by  slipping  a  five-franc  piece  into  her 
hand,  for  which  extraordinary  performance 
all  the  blessings  of  the  Santa  Madonna  were 
showered  upon  her  head.  "  1  cannot  do 
much,"  she  would  say,  "  but  if  a  little 
money  can  aid  these  poor  creatures,  they 
shall  have  it  willingly." 

Poor  restless  heart!  she  longed  to  do 
something  whereby  she  might  gain  peace. 
She  denied  herself  her  greatest  pleasure,  — 
that  of  attending  the  Catholic  ceremonies 
where  Guido  sang,  and  went  instead  to  the 
Protestant  Church,  where  the  impressive 
service  was  badly  read,  the  singing  a  farce, 
and  the  sermon  a  combination  of  dogmatic 
platitudes,  that  did  not  touch  her  heart  into 
reverence,  as  did  the  pictured  saints,  the 
ascending  incense,  and  the  glorious  music  at 
St.  Peter's.  Still  she  felt  it  to  be  her  duty, 
and  so  she  struggled  through  it  with  a  sort  of 
dreary  longing  for  one  of  her  dear  lather's 
sermons,  thinking,  "  O,  if  I  could  but  sit  hi 
the  old  church  at  Helmsford,  and  IOOK  into 
his  serene  face,  that  never  was  stern  or  cold 
to  me  ! " 

Toward  the  last  of  April  the  warm 
weather  came  on,  and  they  began  to  discuss 
their  plans  for  the  summer.  Lady  Dinsmore 
found  the  health  of  Florence  improving  so 
rapidly  under  the  influence  of  the  soft  cli- 
mate that  she  resolved  to  remain  abroad 
another  year.  Very  often  she  said,  "  I  wish 
to  spend  the  summer  in  one  of  the  lovely 
villas  that  surround  the  Bay  of  Naples  " ;  so 
it  was  decided  that  the  two  families  should 
unite,  and  hire  for  the  summer  Sans  Souci,  — 
a  pleasantly  situated  villa  half-way  between 
Castelamare  and  Sorento,  on  one  of  the 
lovely  heights  that  overlook  the  fairest  spot 
on  earth,  the  enchanting  Bay  of  Naples. 

Lady  Dinsmore  had  invited  Guido  and 
Mr.  Carnegie  to  visit  her,  and  when  she  said 
to  Mrs.  Tremaine,  with  her  usual  care  for 
the  happiness  of  others,  "  Shall  I  invite  the 
Prince  V "  much  to  her  surprise,  Helen, 
turning  a  little  pale,  replied,  "  No,  thank 
you,  I  would  rather  you  did  not;  it  is  much 
better  that  he  should  not  be  invited." 

"  But,  my  dear,  you  have  become  so  ac- 
customed to  his  society,  can  you  be  happy 
without  it  ?  " 

"  I  must  endeavor  to  be  so,"  she  said,  in 
a  hard,  cold  tone,\  "  for  I  am  not  likely  to 
have  much  of  it  in  the  future."  Then,  turn- 
ing impulsively  to  Lady  Dinsmore,  she 


WOVEN   OF   MANY  THREADS. 


81 


took  her  hand  in  hers  and  kissed  it.  "  O 
how  pood  you  are !  If  I  could  only  be  like 
you ! " 

"  My  dear  girl,  I  have  suffered,  and  I 
understand  your  sorrow.  I  pity  you,  and 
wish  it  were  in  my  power  to  make  you 
happy.  You  are  right :  if  you  must  part,  it 
is  better  to  do  so  at  once."  Then  with 
tearful  eyes  she  kissed  Mrs.  Trernaine's 
cheek,  and  said  softly,  "  Cheer  up,  dear 
heart,  you  will  not  be  unhappy  always. 
Time  will  heal  the  wound." 

"  Or  Death  will  gently  touch  it  with  his 
cold  finder,  and  it  will  cease  to  bleed,"  re- 
plied Helen. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

ALL   IS   OVER   BETWEEN   US   FOREVER. 

MRS.  TREMAINE  sat  before  the  dress- 
ing-table in  her  room.  Her  watch  lay 
open  near  her,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  it  with  a  strange,  agonized  expression. 
"  Nearly  three  o'clock,"  she  said,  with 
an  inflection  of  despair  in  -her  voice. 
"  In  ten  minutes  he  will  be  here.  Then 
my  happiness  ends,  and  I  must  begin  to 
bear  the  weight  of  a  ruined  life.  Ten 
minutes  more  and  I  must  say  farewell  to 
this  sweet  dream,  I  must  engage  in  a  con- 
Aict  which  will  be  the  transition  from  bliss 
to  misery.  With  my  own  lips  I  must  utter 
the  worus  that  will  be  the  death-warrant 
to  my  happiness.  With  my  own  hand  I 
must  put  away  the  scarcely  tasted  cup  of 
joy.  Forever,  forever,  as  long  as  God 
burdens  me  with  weary  days  and  sleepless 
nights,  I  shall  bear  about  with  me  a  wound, 
a  blight,  that  none  must  know  of;  and  I 
must  live  a  constant  lie.  O  the  weariness 
of  hypocrisy  and  deceit !  If  in  all  the  fu- 
ture I  could  wear  sackcloth,  and  sit  in  the 
ashes  and  weep,  life  would  be  more  endur- 
able. Three  o'clock,"  and  she  pushed 
away  her  watch,  and  started  up  paler  than 
death  as  she  heard  a  servant  approaching 
her  door. 

"  The  Prince  is  in  the  salon,  Signora." 
"  Say  I  will  be  with  him  directly." 
She  glanced  at  the  mirror,  arranging  her 
waves  of  gold.     She  would  be  as  lovely  as 
possible,  that  the  memory  of  her  beauty 
might  haunt  every  hour  of  his  future  life. 

"  Heavens  !  how  pale  I  am  !  "  and  she 
rubbed  her  cheeks  with  feverish  energy  to 
redden  a  little  their  almost  ghastly  white- 
ness. Then,  adjusting  the  delicate  lace 
around  her  throat,  and  smoothing  the  abun- 
dant folds  of  her  pale  blue  dress,  she  left 
the  room  with  a  calm,  proud  step. 

Something  of  the  courageous  despair  of 
Sappho,  mingled  with  the  sorrow  of  Iphi- 
genia,  filled  her  heart  with  a  stern  resolve  to 
11 


meet  this  man,  and  then  and  there  to  put 
an  end  forever  to  this  chapter  of  her  life 
by  sacrificing  her  happiness  to  the  worldly 
interest  of  the  one  she  loved. 

He  arose  and  took  her  hand  as  she  en- 
tered the  salon,  and,  looking  into  her  lovely 
face,  said  softly,  "  ( '-  ."'«,  you  do 

i  not  meet  rne  with  a  smile." 

She  drew  away,  and,  leaning  against  a 
marble  console,  as  though  she  could  derive 
some  strength  from  contact  with  the  cold 
stone,  she  said,  in  a  voice  of  forced  calmness, 
"  Prince  Conti,  do  you  know  why  I  have 
asked  for  this  interview  to-day  ?  " 

The  blood  mounted  to  his  handsome 
face  as  he  replied,  "  How  should  1  know 
what  has  induced  you  to  grant  me  such  a 
pleasure  ?  " 

"  It  is  because  to-morrow  I  leave  Rome, 
as  you  already  know,  and  I  would  take  my 
last  farewell  of  you." 

"  Your  last  farewell ! "  he  repeated,  vague- 
ly. "I  beseech  you  to  choose  some  other 
subject  for  pleasantry." 

u  I  assure  you  this  is  not  a  pleasantry,  I 
am  most  solemnly  in  earnest.  From  this 
hour  all  is  over  between  us  forever." 

A  mortal  paleness  overspread  his  face. 
"  Then  you  have  never  loved  me  ?^' 

"  I  have  loved  you." 

"  And  you  love  me  no  more  V  " 

"  Yes,  I  love  you,  and  I  shall  love  you 
until  my  heart  is  stilled  forever." 

"  Then,  Helen,  why  must  we  part?  I 
love  you  deeply.  I  love  you  as  I  can  never 
love  another.  Why  must  we  part  ?  " 

"  Because,"  she  replied,  in  the  same  voice 
of  forced  calmness,  "  as  dearly  as  I  love 
you,  I  love  my  honor  still  more.  Our 
names  are  already  connected.  And  the 
cruel  misjudging  world  orders  this  parting, 
or  I  must  pay  the  penalty  of  a  ruined  repu- 
tation." 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  with  something  of  scorn 
in  his  voice,  "  there  can  be  little  love  in 
this  cold  worldly  prudence." 

"  Look  at  me,  Ortensio."  She  drew 
nearer,  and,  laying  her  soft  white  hand  on 
his  arm,  she  raised  her  blue  eyes  to  his. 
"  Look  in  my  face,  and  tell  me  if  you  see 
aught  but  truth  there,  and  do  not  dare 
to  say  I  have  never  loved  you.  I  would 
willingly  lay  my  dead  body  in  the  dust  at 
your  ieet  if  over  it  you  could  walk  to  for- 
tune and  fame.  I  am  young,  and  yon  say 
beautiful.  If  I  might  die  in  your  arms  this 
moment,  I  would  say  to  the  darkness  and 
corruption  of  the  grave,  '  Behold  your 
sister ! '  I  would  welcome  with  joy  the 
consoler,  and  his  cold  breath  would  be  the 
kiss  of  peace.  What  am  I  to  do  in  all  the 
dreary  years  to  come  ?  How  am  I  to  live 
without  your  voice,  your  smile  ?  O  that 
my  heart  would  die  within  me,  and  feel  no 
more  this  corroding  pain !  But  it  will  live ; 


82 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


like  a  poor  body  half  palsied,  it  will  live 
only  to  be  conscious  of  its  suffering." 

"  O  Helen  ! "  he  cried,  falling  at  her  feet 
and  covering  her  hands  with  tears  and 
kisses,  "do  not  say  we  must  part.  We 
need  not  part.  Be  my  wife.  With  thee 
I  will  forget  my  poverty;  happy  in  thy 
love,  I  will  forget  my  ruin.  I  will  labor  for 
thee.  In  same  other  land  far  from  here  I 
will  cease  to  remember  that  the  blood  of  the 
princes  of  Conti  flows  in  my  veins.  I  will 
forget  the  lost  palaces  of  my  ancestors,  and 
my  base  wish  to  regain  them  at  the  cost  of 
my  happiness  and  the  integrity  of  my  man- 
hood. No  ;  a  desire  so  unworthy  of  me  has 
passed  away  forever.  Everything  in  com- 
parison with  thy  love  is  insignificant.  With 
thee  life  will  have  enough  of  joy.  I  can 
well  dispense  with  wealth." 

"  Dear  Ortensio,"  she  said,  leaning  her 
golden  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  laying  her 
arm  around  his  neck,  "  dear  noble  darling, 
I  am  proud  that  you  are  superior  to  the 
selfishness  the  world  accredits  to  you.  In 
this  moment  I  love  you  as  I  never  have  be- 
fore, because  now  I  know  how  true  and 
strong  your  heart  is.  Now  I  find  you  above 
the  avarice  which  I  feared  was  the  only 
blot,  on  a  being  the  most  perfect  God  ever 
created." 

Adoring  woman !  Even  while  she  spoke, 
if  she  could  have  looked  into  the  heart  of 
her  lover,  she  would  have  seen  that  a  gloomy 
reaction  had  already  taken  place.  For 
scarcely  had  bis  lips  repeated  the  words 
which  his  cooler  judgment  told  him  were 
rain  to  his  prospects  before  he  repented 
having  made  an  offer  which  he  never  for 
one  moment  doubted  would  be  accepted. 
But  his  fond,  passionate  eyes,  as  they  looked 
into  hers,  did  not  betray  his  secret ;  neither 
did  his  voice,  as  he  repeated,  with  every 
variation  of  tenderness,  the  expressive  terms 
of  endearment  with  which  bis  lovely  lan- 
guage abounds. 

For  one  moment  Helen  leaned  on  his 
breast  in  a.  sort  of  ecstatic  dream.  For  one 
moment  their  lips  met  in  a  kiss  of  deep,  fer- 
vent passion  ;  and  then,  white  and  cold,  she 
drew  away  from  his  encircling  arms,  and 
stood  with  clasped  hands  and  compressed 
lips,  looking  at  him.  He  came  near  her,  to 
fold  her  again  to  his  heart,  but  she  waved 
him  away. 

"No,  no,"  she  paid,  with  a  sickly  smile; 
"  no  more  weakness,  for  I  have  much  need 
of  strength.  Did  you  think,  my  darling,  for 
one  moment,  that  I  could  accept  your  sacri- 
fice, that  I  could  be  the  weight  to  drag 
you  down  ?  No,  no,  I  love  you  too  well  for 
that.  I  love  you  better  than  myself  or  my 
own  happiness.  And  it  is  because  I  love 
you  that  I  can  never  be  your  wife." 

He  interrupted  her  with  passionate  pro- 
testations. 


"  Hush ! "  she  said,  almost  sternly, 
"  hush,  and  let  me  speak !  I  understand 
you  better  than  you  understand  yourself. 
A  moment  of  weakness  has  betrayed  you 
into  saying  what  your  cookr  judgment 
would  condemn.  I  am  comparatively  poor. 
I  could  not  assist  you  to  maintain  the  posi- 
tion to  which  you  were  born  ;  neither  could 
I  endure  to  see  you  grow  weary  day  by  day, 
your  brow  contract  and  lower  with  gloomy 
care,  your  gay,  happy  nature  change  with 
regret  and  disappointment.  You  talk  of 
labor  in  another  land  !  O  my  poor  darling  ! 
what  do  you  know  of  dull,  uninteresting 
labor  ?  —  you,  a  child  of  the  South  ;  born  to 
sport  like  a  butterfly  on  the  breeze  of  pros- 
perity !  Heretofore  poverty  has  been  but 
a  name  to  you.  You  have  lived  in  elegance 
on  the  remnants  of  the  glory  of  your  ances- 
tors. But  gradually  it  is  diminished,  until 
the  future  has,  little  to  give  you.  You  must 
look  to  another  source  for  wealth.  There 
are  many  women,  rich,  lovely,  and  young, 
who  will  gladly  ally  themselves  to  your 
noble  name,  and  through  whom  you  can 
redeem  your  lost  estates.  Unfortunately  I 
have  not  wealth ;  for  with  wealth  I  could 
make  you  happy,  but  without  it  I  should 
make  you  miserable.  Therefore  you  see  I 
cannot  be  your  wife,  and  we  must  part." 

"  O  Helen  ! "  he  exclaimed,  with  a  feeling 
of  mingled  relief  r.nd  sorrow,  "why  do  you 
torture  me  so  ?  If,  as  you  say,  you  cannot 
be  my  wife,  why  need  we  part  ?  Cannot 
we  love  each  other  the  same  ?  " 

She  locked  at  him  a  moment,  flushing  and 
paling.  Then,  tossing  back  the  waves  of 
gold  from  her  brow,  and  drawing  her 
queenly  figure  to  its  full  height,  while  a 
glance  of  scorn  flashed  from  under  her 
white  lids,  she  replied,  "  You  are  the  Prince 
Conti,  and  I  am  simply  Mrs.  Tremaine, 
the  daughter  of  a  poor  English  cffi- 
cer.  But  I  am  very  proud,  and  my  fair 
fame  is  more  precious  to  me  than  my 
love.  Already  the  charitable  world  has 
united  our  names  not  any  too  kindly.  An 
entire  and  irrevocable  separation  is  the 
cnly  thing  that  can  stop  the  vile  mouth  of 
slander.  You,  as  well  as  myself,  must  see 
the  necessity  of  this.  Whether  in  the  fu- 
ture we  are  entirely  apart  from  each  other, 
or  whether  we  may  meet  in  society,  I  am  to 
you  henceforth  only  Mrs.  Tremaine,  and  you 
to  me  are  the  Prince  Conti ;  nevi  r  again 
Helen  and  Ortensio,  two  loving,  passionate 
souls,  that  have  met  together  for  a  lew  briefj 
blissful  hours,  only  to  be  separated  by  the 
cruel  circumstances  of  life.  I  think  you 
have  loved  me,  and  I  believe  you  will  love 
me.  But  you  are  strong  enough  to  wear  the 
iron  mask,  to  hide  beneath  the  joy  of  life 
whatever  you  may  feel  of  regret  and  sorrow. 
And  I,  Ortensio,  I  will  forever  bless  the  fate 
that  brought  us  together.  I  have  loved. 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


83 


Through  you  and  with  you,  I  have  known 
as  much  of  happiness  in  this  brief  time  as 
usually  falls  to  the  lot  of  mortals.  I  have 
feasted  with  the  gods.  I  have  drunk  the 
wine  of  the  grapes  of  Eden.  I  have  eaten  of 
the  fruit  ripened  under  the  walls  of  Paradise. 
The  amaranth  and  the  asphodel  have  crown- 
ed for  a  moment  my  brow,  and  henceforth  I 
am  immortal.  Shall  I  then  murmur,  now 
the  feast  is  finished,  because  it  did  not  last 
forever  ?  No,  no ;  it  has  been,  and  that 
is  enough.  The  memory  of  it  will  be  a  sing- 
ing bird  that  will  nestle  forever  in  my  heart. 
I  cannot  agree  with  Tennyson,  that  '  a  sor- 
row's crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  hap- 
pier things.'  How  I  shall  suffer,  God  only 
knows  ;  but  there  will  be  moments  when  the 
gentle  showers  will  refresh  the  burning  soil 
of  my  heart,  and  buds  and  blossoms  will 
spring  into  life  fragrant  with  the  odor  of  the 
past.  And  who  knows,"  she  said,  press- 
ing her  hand  to  her  heart,  with  a  little  shiv- 
er, "  who  knows  if  it  will  be  long.  I  think, 
in  the  years  to  come,  when  you  are  sitting  in 
your  gloomy  old  palace  with  your  stately 
wife  at  your  side,  and  your  children  rever- 
ently surrounding  you,  the  golden  hair  of 
poor  Helen  Tremaine  will  have  been  soiled 
with  grave-mould  many  a  year." 

"  Hush,  Helen  !  Have  pity  on  me  !  "  he 
cried,  with  passionate  sobs.  "  You  break  my 
heart.  We  cannot  part,  we  shall  both  be 
miserable  forever.  No,  I  swear  to  you,  if 
you  will  not  be  my  wife,  to  remain  as  I  am. 
You  are  the  only  woman  I  love,  and  I  will 
have  no  other." 

She  smiled  in  his  face,  and,  taking  his 
hand  in  hers,  pressed  her  soft  lips  upon  it, 
while  the  large  tears  rolled  over  her  cheeks. 
"Now  farewell,  darling!  God  bless  you! 
May  you  be  very  happy  with  some  good 
noble  woman ! " 

He  clapped  her  in  his  arms,  and  said  in 
a  voice  choked  with  emotion,  "  Why  this 
sad  farewell  ?  One  would  think  we  were 
never  to  meet  again." 

"  We  may  meet  again,  Ortensio,  but  not 
as  now.  This  is  the  last  time  my  head  will 
ever  lie  upon  your  breast  unless  it  i-  in 
doalh.  If  you  are  near  me,  I  shall  pray  to 
die  in  your  arms." 

She  clung  to  him,  silently  sobbing.  Per- 
haps each  felt  with  prophetic  force  that  it 
was  indeed  the  last  time  heart  wuiild  throb 
against  heart,  warm  wi'.h  life  and  love.  For 
their  faces  were  as  solemn,  when  they  parted, 
as  though  they  had  been  in  the  presence  of 
death. 

The  Prince  looked  gloomy  and  thoughtful 
as  he  walked  down  the  Corso  at  an  unusual- 
ly languid  pace,  towa:d  the  Cafe  di  Roma, 
where  he  had  an  appointment  with  some  of 
the  young  nobility,  never  heeding  the  lovely 
faces  that,  smiled  at  him  from  the  line  of  car- 
ritises  that  were  rolling  down  the  Pincio. 


"  What  can  be  the  matter  with  Conti  ?  " 
exclaimed  a  gay  donna.  '•  He  looks  most 
disconsolate." 

"  Certamente  he  has  proposed,  and  la  b<=.Ua 
bionda  has  refused  him,"  replied  her  com- 
panion. 

It  was  true  he  was  very  unhappy,  but  only 
at  the  thought  of  parting  from  '.Mrs.  Tre- 
maine for  what  he  believed  to  be  a  few 
months ;  he  consoled  himself  by  thinking  that 
she  would  return  to  Rome  the  next  winter. 
She  loved  him,  and  all  would  be  renewed ; 
women  were  always  a  little  sensational; 
perhaps  it  was  gotten  up  to  make  their  brief 
parting  more  effective,  lor  the  surely  could 
not  mean  entirely  what  she  said.  "  But  she 
is  a  splendid  creature ;  few  would  have  had 
the  courage  to  refuse  me,  for  fear  I  should 
never  ask  them  again  She  is  the  first  dis- 
interested woman  1  ever  met.  I  wonder 
if  she  suspected  my  feelings.  However,  1 
was  sincere  when  1  said  1  loved  her ;  but 
she  is  right,  my  love  could  not  st;;nd  the 
test  of  poverty.  Per  Bacco !  if  she  were 
rich  I  would  marry  her  at  once,  but,  as  it  is, 
I  cannot.  Yet  there  is  no  reason,  because 
we  can't  marry  at  present,  that  we  should 
not  see  each  other  the  game  as  we  have 
done.  Perhaps,  now,  she  meant  v.hat  she 
said ;  but  she  never  will  have  strength  to 
keep  to  such  a  resolve ;  women  never  are 
strong." 

Mrs.  Tremaine  tottered  to  her  room; 
life,  hope,  joy,  all  seemed  to  have  left  her 
suddenly  and  forever.  She  closed  the  door, 
sank  into  a  chair,  and,  burying  her  face  in 
the  pillows  of  her  bed,  tat  without  mo- 
tion, sob,  or  sigh.  "  It  is  the  beginning  of 
the  half-life,"  she  thought,  '•  the  deadness 
and  stupor  of  the  soul,  the  reaction  that 
follows  a  strong  excitement,  the  sensation 
of  a  body  thrust  from  a  great  height,  that 
feels  no  pain  at  first  because  of  the  numb- 
ness produced  by  the  fcrce  of  the  shock.  I 
do  not  realize  it  quite  at  this  moment,  I 
shall  suffer  more  in  the  time  to  ci  me.  Now 
I  seem  to  hear  his  voice,  I  leel  the  clasp 
of  his  arms  around  me,  my  face  is  yet  warm 
with  his  tender  kist-es.  The  agi.ny  will  be 
in  the  future,  when  I  shall  hunger  and  thirst 
for  his  voice,  when  I  shall  pine  for  his 
smile.  Ah !  I  know  the  time  will  come 
when  I  would  willingly  give  half  the  years 
of  my  life  for  one  caress.  But  why  think  of 
this  ?  It  is  finished.  All  is  over  forever. 
He  is  as  dead  to  me  for  the  future  as  though 
the  grave  had  hidden  him."  She  arc.- 
walked  slowly  back  and  forth,  pressing  In  r 
hand  to  her  side,  while  a  dreary  smile  trem- 
bled around  her  lips,  —  a  smile  like  that  we 
tomot  imes  see  on  the  face  of  the  dead. 

"  This  pain  is  a  premonition  of  pence.  I 
think  I  thall  not  suffer  long,  and  he  will  al- 
wavs  see  me  before  him,  as  I  was  in  tin-  glow 
of  my  youth  and  beauty ;  others  will  change 


84 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


and  grow  old,  but  I  shall  always  be  young  to 
him ;  1  shall  always  be  golden-haired  Helen 
Tremaine,  'sweet  Helen,'  as  he  so  often 
named  me." 

She  repeated  the  words  with  a  lingering 
tenderness,  as  though  she  derived  some  con- 
solation from  them.  Pausing  before  a  vase 
from  which  drooped  some  blue  campanula 
that  he  had  gathered  for  her  from  a  ruin  the 
day  before,  she  took  them  from  the  water,  and, 
pressing  them  reverently  to  her  lips,  folded 
them  in  his  last  note  to  her,  and  laid  them 
in  the  bottom  of  her  desk. 

"  Poor  little  flowers ! "  she  said,  "  you 
bloomed  amid  ruin  and  desolation  until  he 
gathered  you  to  place  you  upon  my  breast. 
You  are  delicate,  you  aje  lovely,  your  color 
speaks  of  fidelity.  Yes,  I  will  be  faithful, 
too  faithful,  to  a  memory." 

Perhaps  a  resemblance  to  her  own  fate 
crossed  her  mind,  as  she  laid  them  away, 
withered  and  faded,  hidden  forever  from 
the  wooing  kisses  of  the  breeze  and  the  sun. 

Although  she  had  decided  long  before 
that  this  hour  must  come,  that  nothing 
could  induce  her  to  become  the  wife  of 
Prince  Conti,  even  if  he  wished  it  with  all 
the  fervency  and  forgetfulness  of  a  grande 
passion,  yet,  now  that  he  had  accepted  her 
refusal,  there  was  a  mingled  feeling  of  regret 
and  disappointment  because  he  had  done 
so;  but  the  thought  never  for  a  moment 
dawned  upon  her  mind,  that  perhaps,  after 
all,  her  idol's  feet  might  be  clay.  No,  sha 
could  make  all  necessary  excuses  for  his 
supreme  selfishness  and  avarice ;  for  love 
always  invests  its  object  with  a  thousand 
noble  attributes  to  which  it  has  no  claims. 

It  would  have  been  better  if  she  could 
have  believed  him  less  perfect;  but  as  it 
was,  she  enshrined  him  in  her  heart  as  the 
reality  of  the  most  beautiful  ideal  a  roman- 
tic woman  ever  portrayed. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

WHY? 

f"PIIE  dinner-bell  rang  and  Mrs.  Tremaine 
JL  hastened  to  arrange  her  dress.  Lady 
Dinsmore,  Florence,  Mr.  Carnegie,  and 
Guido  dined  with  them  this  last  'day,  and 
she  must  take  her  place  among  them  as 
usual.  "  Now,"  she  said,  with  a  heart- 
breaking sigh,  "  I  must  put  on  my  mask, 
never  to  lay  it  aside  one  moment  in  the 
presence  of  others.  The  world  shall  not 
say  that  Helen  Tremaine  is  dying  for  love. 
Happily  I  shall  not  always  be  with  the 
world.  There  will  be  hours  when  I  can  be 
by  myself,  —  hours  of  silence  and  loneli- 
ness, when  I  can  weep  and  moan  unheeded. 
But  no,  I  must  not  weep,  for  tears  leave 


their  traces,  and  nothing  betrays  a  hidden 
sorrow  like  red  eyelids,  and  ruins  one's 
beauty  so.  If  I  mourn,  the  world  will  not 
know  it ;  for  it  will  be  my  heart  that  will 
weep  tears  of  blood.  There,"  she  added, 
glancing  at  the  mirror,  "  none  will  imagine  I 
have  come  out  of  great  tribulation.  There 
are  no  signs  of  it  on  my  lace ;  my  mask  fits 
well  and  conceals  all."  So,  with  her  usual 
light  step  and  gay  smile,  she  entered  the 
drawing-room.  Constance,  Guido,  and 
Florence  were  at  a  table,  sorting  ai;d  it:-- 
ranging  some  photographic  views  of  Rome, 
while  they  laughed  and  chatted  over  the 
probable  adventures  of  their  next  day's 
journey.  Lady  Dinsmore,  Madame  Landel, 
and  Mr.  Carnegie  were  talking  seriously  of 
the  political  state  of  the  country ;  and  Mr. 
Carnegie  held  in  his  hand  a  journal,  from 
which  he  had  just  read  an  account  of  the 
insurrection  at  Parma. 

"  We  certainly  could  not  go  north  at 
present,"  said  Lady  Dinsmore ;  "  how  fortu- 
nate that  we  have  arranged  to  spend  the 
summer  in  the  south  !  I  think  there  is  HO 
part  of  Italy  whei-e  we  shall  bo  safer." 

"  Do  you  believe  we  shall  be  able  to  enter 
Rome  in  the  autumn  ?  "  inquired  Madame 
Landel,  with  some  anxiety. 

"  O  certainly,"  replied  Mr.  Carnegie. 
"  The  northern  Adriatic  states  will  be  the 
scene  of  the  conflict.  Rome  will  not  be  at- 
tacked at  present ;  the  time  has  not  come. 
The  Papal  states  must  be  gradually  dimin- 
ished by  uniting  them  to  Italy  before  they 
can  dare  hope  to  add  Rome.  This  strong- 
hold of  the  Pope  will  stand  in  solitary 
grandeur  many  a  year." 

"  But  eventually  it  must  succumb,"  said 
Lady  Dinsmore. 

"  Yes,  eventually,  but  not  yet ;  the  time 
has  not  come." 

"  Dinner  is  waiting,  Constance,"  said 
Madame  Landel ;  and  they  all  entered  the 
dining-room. 

"  Please  don't  talk  any  more  of  political 
troubles,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tremaine,  as  they 
seated  themselves  at  the  table.  "  Let  us  be 
merry,  for  who  knows  if  we  shall  all  dine 
together  again !  " 

"  Now  you  have  started  a  subject  for  sad 
thoughts ;  how  unlike  you  !  "  said  Mr.  Car- 
negie, smiling  gently  as  he  helped  her  to  a 
glass  of  Orvieto. 

"  Certainly  we  shall  all  dine  together  very 
soon,  —  shall  we  not,  mamma?"  inquired 
Florence.  "  Mr.  Carnegie  and  Signer  Guido 
have  promised  to  come  to  us  in  three  weeks ; 
then  what  merry  times  we  shall  have  !  O 
the  boating,  bathing,  and  the  donkey-riding  1 
Won't  it  all  be  delightful  ?  " 

"  O  the  sand-flies  and  the  mosquitoes 
and  the  burning  sun  !  "  said  Mrs.  Tremaine, 
laughing.  "  I  doubt  if  we  shall  find  our 
paradise  anything  but  earth." 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


85 


"  Ah,  that  is  because  the  Prince  won't 
be  there  !  "  retorted  Florence,  thoughtlessly. 

The  expression  of  Mrs.  Tremaine's  lace 
never  changed  as  she  said  lightly,  "  But 
perhaps  some  other  destroying  angel  will 
deign  to  alight  in  our  midst.  Lady  Char- 
lotte told  me  yesterday  that  the  young  Duke 
of  Fitzhaven,  whom  you  admire  so  much, 
intends  spending  the  summer  in  Sorento." 

"  O,  that  will  be  jolly !  what  a  gay  party 
we  shall  have  !  " 

And  so*  in  light  badinage  the  dinner 
passed  off,  and  no  one  but  Mr.  Carnegie  no- 
ticed that  Mrs.  Tremaine  sent  away  plate 
after  plate  almost  untasted. 

An  hour  afterward  they  were  gathered 
around  the  piano  for  a  farewell  "  concert,"  as 
Florence  called  it.  Guido  had  just  finished 
playing  that  exquisite  but  incomprehensible 
Warum  ?  of  Schumann. 

"Warum?  —  what  does  it  msan?"  in- 
quired Mrs.  Tremaine,  who  did  not  under- 
stand German. 

"  Why,"  replied  Constance. 

"  Why,"  laughed  Mrs,  Tremaine ;  "  why 
did  he  write  it  ?  and  why  did  he  call  it  Why  ?  " 

"  Because,"  said  Mr.  Carnegie.  "  at  the 
time  he  wrote  it  he  was  desperately  in  love 
with  Clara  Weeks,  whom  he  could  not  mar- 
ry. I  suppose  what  he  intended  to  de- 
mand by  that  passionate  outburst  was, 
'  Why  cannot  I  marry  the  woman  I  love  ?  ' 
It  is  said  to  have  had  the  desired  effect, 
for  it  so  softened  the  hitherto  obdurate  heart 
of  her  father  that  ha  at  once  gave  his  con- 
sent to  the  marriage,  and  the  unfortunate 
Robert  Schumann  was  made  happy  after 
much  patient  waiting."  And  Mr.  Carnegie 
glanced  shyly  at  Helen. 

"  Yet  his  happiness  seems  to  have  come 
almost  too  late,"  observed  Guido  ;  "  for  the 
sorrow  of  his  life  weighed  so  heavily  on  his 
sensitive  temperament  that  it  accelerated 
the  mental  disease  which  terminated  his 
brilliant  career  so  early." 

"  Ah,"  s  ad  Lady  Dinsmore,  with  a  strange 
pathos  in  her  voice,  "how  many  rebsllious, 
unsatisfied  souls  have  wailed  out  almost  in 
the  same  despairing  tones,  '  Why  ?  why  ? ' " 
But  little  she  thought,  among  the  seven  per- 
sons present,  four  unhappy,  -suffering  hearts 
were  even  in  that  moment  silently  asking 
Why? 

"Why,"  thought  Constance,  "has  fate 
separated  mo  from  the  only  person  I  can 
ever  love  ?  "  and  Guido,  lost  in  thought,  put 
the  same  question  to  his  own  heart.  "  And 
why,"  mentally  ejaculated  Mr.  Carnegie, 
why  cannot  I  win  the  love  of  this  divine  crea- 
ture ?  "  And  the  divine  creature,  her  mind 
a  prey  to  the  most  torturing  thoughts,  her 
soul  filled  vjith  rebellion  and  sorrow,  almost 
cried  tiljiv.l  in  her  sliarp  anguish,  "  Why  has 
this  cruel  destiny  cut  me  off  forever  from 
hope  and  peace  ?  " 


How  many  pale  lips  and  streaming  eves 
have  been  uplifted  to  Him  who  hears  for- 
ever, as  the  voice  of  many  waters,  the  mur- 
muring of  suffering  humanity,  rolling  wave- 
like  into  his  presence  the  innumerable  whys 
of  every  questioning  heart !  And  he,  the 
Son,  who  sitteth  near  the  Father,  in  that 
dark  hour  when  he  knelt  in  the  grove  of 
Gethsemane,  crying,  in  the  extreme  of  men- 
tal anguish,  "  Why  cannot  this  cup  pass 
from  me  ?  "  bore  in  that  moment  the  burden 
of  all  the  whys  that  have  fallen  from  each 
human  heart  in  all  time. 

And  doth  he  not  often,  he  the  divine, 
whisper  to  us  who  are  listening  for  the  still, 
small  voice,  "  Wait,  I  see  the  end  from  the 
beginning.  Lite  is  solving  for  thee  the  prob- 
lem, and  my  Father  will  answer  thy  ques- 
tions in  his  own  good  time  "  ? 

"What  shall  I  sing?"  said  Guido  at 
length,  raising  his  eyes  to  Constance  with 
earnest  inquiry. 

"  I  am  not  in  the  mood  to  choose,"  she 
replied  ;  "  and  if  I  were,  my  selection  might 
not  please  the  others.  I  am  very  sad  at 
this  moment."  She  spoke  in  a  low  voice, 
and  the  words  fell  from  her  lips  befare  she 
was  aware  of  how  much  meaning  they  might 
contain.  An  eloquent  glance  shot  arrow- 
like  to  her  heart,  as  Guido  turned  over  the 
music  and  selected  the  simple  but  exquisite 
Addio  of  Schubert,  and  his  loving  heart 
looked  from  his  eyes  as  he  sang  with  touch- 
ing expression,  — 

"  Addio  mio  bene,  addio  donna  del  primo  amor." 

"  Bravo  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Carnegio,  when 
he  had  finished.  "  If  we  were  a  fashionable 
audience  in  a  London  concert  room,  your 
fortune  and  reputation  would  be  made  be- 
yond a  doubt." 

Guido  smiled  his  thanks,  but  he  did  not 
covet  the  applause  of  a  London  audience ; 
he  only  sang  to  one  heart,  mid  if  that  had 
understood  him  it  was  enough,  he  was  more 
than  contented. 

As  Constance  bade  him  good  nij;ht,  and 
good  by  for  a  time,  he  fancied  there  was 
a  little  warmth  in  the  light  pressure  of  her 
hand,  and  a  little  tenderness  in  the  smile 
that  lingered  around  her  mouth;  hov 
he  went  to  his  room  happier  than  lu>  had 
bsen  for  a  long  time,  kissed  his  ivory  cruci- 
fix with  more  devotion  than  usual,  ivpcatcd 
more  than  his  usual  number  of  paternosters, 
and  looked  with  a  little  more  than  religious 
affection  at  his  pictured  Madonna,  which 
he  fancied  resembled  Constance,  and  then 
slept  calmly  and  peacefully. 

Mrs.  Tremaine  being  in  her  room,  her  ne- 
cessity for  acting  was  laid  aside  with  her 
evening  dress,  and  no  longer  compelled  her 
to  smile  ;  her  lips  were  compressed,  her  brow 
was  contracted,  her  face  set,  and  white  as 
enow  under  moonlight.  Her  golden  hair 


86 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


unbound  and  falling  over  her  like  a  veil,  she  listening  in  stately  silence;  the  children 
paced  to  and  fro  in  the  dimly  lighted  room  rolling  and  tumbling  in  the  foam  that  gently 
like  a  lovely  restless  spirit.  No  tears,  no  lapped  the  shore  ;  a  tiny  boat,  with  a  single 
\mn<nn<T  of  the  hands,  no  bursting  sobs  ;  I  boatman  standing  in  the  bow,  and  using  his 
only  the  blue  eyes  looked  forth  into  the  one  oar  with  peculiar  grace  arid  power, 
night,  a  deep  longing  agony  in  their  gaze,  j  rose  and  fell,  a  toy  on  the  inrolling  waves, 
The  little  hands  were  pressed  hot  and  dry  j  but  nevertheless  came  swiftly  and  surely 
against  her  throbbing  heart,  and  now  and  toward  the  shore ;  the  glorious  ravs  of  the 


then  she  tottered  as  though  weariness  or 
weakness  were  gaining  upon  her.  One 
o'clock,  two  o'clock,  three  o'clock ;  all  are 
silent,  the  world  is  lapped  in  repose,  she 
pauses  like  one  exhausted  with  a  long 
march,  and,  throwing  herself  heavily  into  a 
chair,  she  says,  "  O,  I  hoped  weariness  of 
body  would  bring  sleep,  but  it  will  not.  And 
I  must  sleep,  or  I  shall  have  no  strength  for 
to-morrow." 

Taking  a  small  phial  ftom  her  dressing- 
table,  she  poured  a  few  drops  of  a  dark 
liquid  into  a  glass  of  water.  After  drink- 
ing it  she  threw  herself  on  her  bed,  and 
was  almost  immediately  wrapped  in  a 
profound  slumber. 


0 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

BY   THE   SEA. 

N  the  beach  near  a  little  hamlet  between 
Sinigaglia  and  Ancona  sat  a  group  of 
fishermen.  The  day  was  nearly  done ;  the 
yellow  sun  dropping  down  behind  the  Ap- 
ennines flung  rainbow  tints  over  the  sea,  and 
lighted  up  the  bronzed  faces  of  the  sailors. 
Their  day's  labor  was  over ;  their  boats  were 
drawn  up  on  the  shore  for  the  night,  the 
red  and  orange  sails  flapping  loceely  against 
the  masts,  which  were  painted  in  rings  of 
many  colors.  The  brown,  weather-stained 
planks,  fastened  with  nails  that  time  and 
much  dragging  over  the  sand  had  worn  to  a 
silvery  brightness ;  the  patches  of  red,  white, 
and  green ;  the  rude  figure-head  of  the 
Madonna ;  the  Latin  inscription  around 
the  painted  bow,  in  black  letters  on  a  white 
ground ;  the  festoons  of  rags  of  unnamable 
shades ;  the  stones  of  the  beach  golden  in 


sun  lighting  and  gilding  all  with  wondrous 
beauty,  —  formed  a  picture,  the  cclor  and 
arrangement  of  which  would  have  delighted 
Vernet,  and  which  only  his  pe'ncil  could 
have  rendered  with  strength  and  fidelity. 

"  Sant'  Antonio  mio ! "  exclaimed  a  fierce, 
wild-looking  man,  the  oldest  of  the  party, 
starting  up  and  pacing  the  beach  with  long 
furious  strides.  "  Let  them  come,  the 
Francesi  and  Tedeschi ;  we  will  give  them 
enough  before  they  finish.  They  {•hall  have 
hot  work, —  ay,  as  hot  as  the  inferno.  It  will 
give  strength  to  every  true  Italian  to  know 
he  is  cutting  down  one  of  these  cursed  in- 
vaders. A  malediction  on  them  !  may  they 
perish  by  the  plague  and  the  swcrd  !  " 

"  Figlio  mio ! "  said  he,  addressing  a 
boy  of  sixteen,  who  stood  gazing  at  him 
with  wide-open  eyes,  •'  will  you  fight  for 
Italy?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  boy,  eagerly ;  "  but  I 
would  rather  fight  with  Garibaldi." 

"  <Sz,*.sl,  caro  Garibaldi.  But  let  us  drive 
out  these  cursed  forestieri  that  are  eating 
up  the  land,  and  then  his  time  will  come. 
Let  Italy  be  united  before  she  can  be  free. 
If  we  had  Garibaldi  for  a  leader,  instead  of 
Cialdini,  we  should  fight  with  one  heart, 
every  man  would  die  for  him." 

"  Yes,  every  man  would  die  for  him !  " 
they  all  exclaimed. 

"  Ah,  he  is  a  hero,"  said  a  ycung  man, 
with  eyes  of  fire.  "  Do  you  remember  the 
story  his  men  told  cf  him  when  he  was 
fighting  down  in  Calabria  ?  After  the  battle 
the  officers  looked  fcr  their  general,  but  he 
was  missing ;  and  where  do  you  think  they 
found  him  ?  " 

"  Where  ?  where  ?  "  inquired  all. 

"  Why,  en  the  ground  with  his  tired 
soldiers,  his  head  on  a  saddle,  and  a  crust 
of  black  bread  that  he  was  too  tired  to  eat 


OJLACtVAt  >O  J       I  XJO     i^LV^LICD      \J1       L 1 1 V3       UVCH/JLl       ii\Jl.VJV- 1.1       -•  ^^ 

the  yellow  light ;   the  background  of  clay  j  clasped  in  his  hand,  and  there  he  was  sleep- 
hovels,  and  the  hills  behind  clothed  with    ing  like  a  child." 

When    the    speaker    finished,    they    all 
shouted  "  Bravo  !  viva  Garibaldi !  " 
Have    you    heard    this    story  ?  " 


the  gray  grren  of  the  olive  and  the  tender 
green  of  the  vine  ;  on  the  right  the  for- 
tressed  heights  of  Ancona,  and  on  the  left 


the  picturesque,  sombre  old  town  of  Sini- 
the  trroup  of  rough  rugged  sailors, 


another ;  but  what  it.  was  they  did  not  wait 

„ r  „ ,  to  hear,  for  one  of  the  women  exclaimed, 

their  short  linen  trousers  and  blue  shirts,  "  //  Signore  !  U  Signore  ' "  and  darted  away 
their  brown  muscular  limbs,  their  straight]  toward  a  tall  man  who  was  ccming  down 
clear-cut  features,  piercing  eyes,  and  black,  the  beach.  He  was  thin  and  pale,  with  a 

long  grizzled  beard  and  gentle  blue  eyes 


uncombed  hair  falling  from  under  thp'ir  red 
caps ;  their  naturally  expressive  positions  as 
they  lounged  against  the  boats,  smoking, 
and  gesticulating  violently  while  they  talked; 
the  women  standing  near  with  folded  arm 


His  coarse  gray  suit  had  a  careless,  neg- 
lected look,  but  the  fine  white  linen  and 
small  hands  and  feet  betrayed  the  gentle- 
man. In  his  arms  he  carried  a  little  brown 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


87 


spaniel,  that  looked  in  his  face  with  most 
loving  eves,  as  he  addressed  it  from  time  to 
tima  in  terms  of  affection  that  it  evidently 
understood.  He  had  scarcely  reached  the 
group  when  he  was  surrounded  by  all  the 
women  and  children,  each  clamoring  for 
some  mark  of  favor ;  while  the  men  arose, 
and,  pulling  off  their  red  caps,  bowed  re- 
spectfully, and  one,  covering  a  rock  with  a 
coarse  blanket,  asked  him  to  sit  and  rest. 

"  Bat  first,  S ignore,  come  to  the  cottage 
and  see  my  little  Beppo,"  said  a  haggard, 
swarthy  woman ;  "  he  has  cried  for  you  all 
day,  povcro  bambino,  and  I  can  do  nothing 
with  him,  he  only  asks  for  il  Signore" 

"  My  poor  Angela  is  dying,  Jigho  mio," 
trembled  out  an  old  white-haired  man,  hob- 
bling up  and  taking  hold  of  his  coat  timidly. 
"  Will  you  come  and  say  a  word  to  her  ? 
She  would  rather  see  you  than  the  curato." 

"  Yes,  yes,  in  a  moment,  Giuseppe,  but  let 
me  go  to  the  poor  baby  first.  I  have  brought 
some  medicine,  which  he  must  have  direct- 

iy«" 

"  Bless  you  !  "  replied  the  woman,  clasp- 
ing his  hand  and  kissing  it.  "  Perhaps  he 
may  live." 

"  Speriamo,"  he  said  gently,  as  he  turned 
toward  the  cottage,  followed  by  all  the  chil- 
dren. 

There  on  a  few  dirty  rags  lay  a  little 
emaciated  creature,  with  eyes  like  great 
spots  of  ink  on  a  sheet  of  blank  paper ;  he 
smiled  in  the  man's  face,  and  held  out  his 
arms  for  the  little  dog. 

"  But  Bappo  must  take  the  medicine  first," 
he  said,  raising  the  child,  and  putting  the 
cup  to  his  lips.  The  boy  made  a  very  wry 
face,  but  heroically  gulped  down  the  bitter 
dratight,  and  thc-n  pressed  the  little  spaniel 
in  his  arms  with  delight.  After  exchanging  a 
few  kind  words  with  the  mother,  and  laying  a 
little  money  and  some  oranges  on  the  dirty 
deal  table,  he  said  he  would  go  to  Angela, 
and  take  the  dog  as  he  returned. 

Passing  alon;;  a  little  farther,  he  came  to 
a  hovel  so  low  that  he  was  obliged  to  stoop 
to  enter,  and  tliL're  lay  a  creature  almost 
hideous  in  her  ghastly  old  age.  Yet  a  smile 
of  pleasure  flitted  over  har  face,  and  stirred 
the  skin  that  hung  like  wrinkled  paper,  as 
he  took  h;>r  horny  black  fingers  in  his,  and 
asked  her  kindly  if  she  were  better. 

"  No,  no,  Si;/nor  mio,  Angela  will  never  be 
any  better  until  the  Santa  Mi/'/«:tn>  smiles 
on  her,  and  bids  her  come  to  her.  She  has 
been  waiting  so  lon-;>-,  for  ten  suffering  years, 
but  pazienz't,  tha  en  1  will  come  soon.  Now 
tell  me  a  little  about  the  Santo  Cristo  when 
he  was  on  earth.  The  curato  tells  me  I 
must  pray  and  do  penances  because  my 
Lord  is  aniry  with  mo,,  but  you  tell  me  he 
loves  m2 ;  then  pray  to  him  that  my  poor 
soul  may  haye  a  short  punishment  in  purga- 
tory." 


"My  poor  woman,  T  am  a  sinner  like  you, 
and  can  do  little  for  your  soul  ;  ]>r;n  to 
Christ  yourself,  be  will  hear  you."  li 
curtly  but  kindly,  as  he  laid  a  flask  of  wine 
and  some  money  on  the  bed,  and  turned 
away. 

The  men  surrounded  him  on  the  beach 
with  innumerable  eager  questions  ;:b  jut  the 
political  state  of  the  country  ;  ibr  as  none 
of  them  could  read,  they  depended  entirely 
on  verbal  accounts,  which  often  came  to 
them  incorrect  and  exaggerated ;  but  what- 
ever information  he  gave  them  they  knew 
they  could  rely  on. 

"  When  will  the  Italian  troops  march 
upon  Ancona?  Is  there  a  lar^  pontifical 
army  in  the  field  ?  Where  will  the  fir.-t  en- 
gagement take  place  that  will  free  Umbria 
and  the  Marches?  Will  Garibaldi  attack 
Rome  during  the  absence  of  the  Pope's 
troops  ?  "  and  many  more  such  questions, 
all  of  which  he  answered  to  the  bes,t  of  his 
knowledge. 

A  handsome  but  melancholy -looking 
young  man,  who  had  stood  apart  during  the 
conversation,  with  his  eyes  fixed  gloomily 
on  the  ground,  now  turned,  and,  with  a 
heavy  sigh,  walked  down  t)  the  edge  of 
the  beach,  and  looked  sadly  out  on  the 
sea. 

"  What  is  it,  Antonio  ?  "  and  a  hand  was 
laid  kindly  on  the  dirty  sleeve  of  the  blue 
jacket. 

"  O  Madre  di  Dio,"  he  replied,  with  al- 
most a  sob,  "  I  am  very  miserable  ;  we  were 
to  be  married,  Francesca  and  I,  the  next 
fcsta ;  bat  now  it  can't  be  when  we  hoped, 
and  the  Santa  Madonna  only  knows  if  it 
ever  will  be." 

"  For  what  reason,  my  poor  Antonio?" 

"Ah,  Sir/nor  mio,  I  am  so  poor;  I  had 
saved  enough  money  in  six  years  to  buy  a 
few  things  for  my  cottage  and  to  pay  the 
curato,  but  last  week,  when  we  had  the 
heavy  storm,  my  boat  went  adrift  and  was 
lost,  povera  barchetta.  So  I  must  take  all 
the  money  I  have  put  aside  to  b:iy  another, 
and  I  must  work  six  years  more  before  I 
can  save  enough  to  marry.  My  Francesca 
does  nothing  but  weep,  for  her  father  is 
dead,  and  she  is  alone." 

"  Conqgio  !  Antonio,  you  are  a  good 
lad,  I  will  help  you  ;  how  much  money  do 
you  need  to  make  you  happy  ?  " 

The  young  man  raised  his  splendid  eyes 

!  to  the  kind  face,  and  said,  while  a  glow  of 

surprise  and  joy  flushed  his  brown  check, 

'•  <>  Sir/nnrfi  .'  you  are  very  good;  but  it  is 

a  great  deal,  it  is  thirty  scuili !  " 

"  Come  to  n?8  to-morrow,  and  you  sh:ill 
have  it." 

Antonio  dropped  on  his  knees  and  rained 
tears  and  kisses  on  the  h::nd  of  hi-  1>; 
tor,  who  turned  away  with  mui-t  c\  os,  amid 
a  torrent  of  thanks. 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


He  took  his  little  dog  from  the  arms  of 
Beppo's  mother,  for  the  child  had  fallen  into 
a  gentle  slumber ;  and,  followed  by  thanks 
and  blessings,  Richard  Vandeleur  turned,  in 
the  gathering  twilight,  to  walk  back  by  the 
shore  to  Ancona.  The  moon  rose  large  and 
cloudless,  and  threw  long  lines  of  trembling 
light  over  the  sea.  The  perpetual  murmurs 
of  the  sad  Adriatic,  mingled  with  the  mem- 
ory of  the  sorrows  that  pierce  the  hearts  of 
God's  humble  creature?,  filled  his  soul  with 
tender  melancholy,  and  the  tears  fell  from 
his  eyes,  and  dropped  one  by  one  on  the 
soft  hairs  of  the  little  spaniel  that  lay  in  his 
arms. 

"  O  suffering  humanity  !  "  he  thought, 
"  O  poor,  worn,  weary  hearts,  that  lie  under 
the  iron  heel  of  the  oppressor,  —  ignorant 
toilers,  who  eat  your  black  bread  unmur- 
muringly,  and  bow  your  necks  under  the 
yoke  like  patient  dumb  beasts !  are  there 
aspirations  in  your  breasts  1  are  there  de- 
sires for  better  things  struggling  in  your 
simple  souls  t  will  time  mature  your  hopes 
and  strengthen  your  confidence  1  Alas ! 
your  country  groans  for  deliverance,  but 
the  time  of  her  travail  is  not  yet  come. 
More  noble  hearts  must  break,  more  fresh 
warm  blood  must  bathe  your  soil,  before  the 
flower  of  freedom  can  spring  forth  and 
blossom." 

Perched  high  on  a  lonely  rock  above  his 
head  was  the  convent  of  the  Sacra  Madre, 
and  the  nuns  were  singing  their  vespers.  A 
voice,  sweet  and  rich,  but  touched  with  a 
strange  sorrow,  floated  out  of  the  grated  win- 
dow of  the  little  chapel,  and  fell  through  the 
still  air  down  into  the  inmost  depths  of  his 
heart,  —  a  voice  that  brought  back  to  him 
the  memory  of  a  moonlit  sea,  where  he 
floated  in  a  little  bark,  while  his  head  rested 
fondly  on  a  gentle  bosom,  a  pair  of  glorious 
eyes  looked  love  into  his,  and  soft,  tender 
fingers  smoothed  back  the  brown  curls  from 
his  boyish  brow.  How  long  ago  that  was ! 
The  brown  hair  was  streaked  with  gray ; 
he  was  old  and  worn,  older  than  his 
years;  the  youthful  freshness  and  enthusi- 
asm had  all  passed  away  forever ;  his  heart 
never  throbbed  now  with  passion,  only  with 
keen,  sharp  sorrow ;  and  that  voice,  and  that 
warm,  beating  heart,  he  feared  they  were 
silent  forever,  at  least,  they  were  silent  to 
him.  "  O  moon  and  stars !  O  blue  and 
shining  sea  1  canst  thou  not  tell  me  where 
she  is?  canst  thou  not  lead  me  to  her?  " 

But  all  the  voice  that  replied  to  him  out 
of  the  silence  of  the  night  was  the  murmur 
of  the  ea,  like  the  plaint  of  invisible  sor- 
row?, and  the  sad  sweet  strain  of  the  nuns 
sinking  their  A  vc.  Maria. 

When  he  reached  the  town  the  Piazza 
del  Mercanti  was  already  filled  with  a 
crowd,  and  the  band  was  playing  an  in- 
spiriting military  air.  Among  the  throng 


near  the  music-stand  was  a  middle-aged 
woman,  —  a  sad  worn  face,  with  a  large  red 
scar  on  her  left  cheek.  She  seemed  restless 
and  anxious,  regarding  every  one  with  a 
curious  scrutiny.  As  her  gaze  wandered 
over  the  mass  of  people,  it  fell  on  the  face 
of  Richard  Vandeleur.  In  a  moment  she 
was  at  his  side. 

"  Filomena,"  he  exclaimed,  "  where  have 
you  come  from  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  here  several  days,"  she  re- 
plied sadly,  "  and  I  am  now  on  my  way 
home." 

"  Have  you  heard  anything  ?  "  he  in- 
quired, with  ill-concealed  anxiety. 

"  Nothing,"  she  said  gloomily,  "  nothing ; 
it  is  useless  to  continue  the  search ;  she 
cannot  be  living,  or,  if  she  is,  she  is  lost 
to  us." 

"  You  look  HI ;  come  with  me  to  the  hotel, 
it  is  very  near;  we  can  talk  there  unob- 
served while  you  rest  and  take  some  sup- 
per." 

"  I  am  ill,  worn  out,  and  disheartened.  I 
shall  never  find  my  child,  never,"  she  cried, 
with  emotion. 

"  Be  calm,  try  to  control  yourself  until 
we  reach  my  rooms." 

She  followed  him  to  the  hotel,  but  she 
scarcely  tasted  the  abundant  supper  he  set 
before  her,  preferring  to  tell  him  of  all 
her  wanderings.  For  six  months  she  had 
searched  in  nearly  every  town  in  Italy,  car- 
ried hither  and  thither  by  some  idle  report 
or  suggestion,  but  all  in  vain. 

"  I  have  not  found  my  poor  Mona,"  she 
said,  "  and  my  Benedetto  has  need  of  me. 
I  must  go  home  to  him,  but  I  thought  to 
have  taken  my  child  with  me  when  1  re- 
turned. It  is  impossible.  I  shall  never  see 
her  again,  never !  " 

"  Do  not  despair  entirely ;  I  still  have  the 
hope  that  De  Villiers  will  yet  cross  my  path, 
and  I  will  then  wring  the  secret  from  his 
heart  if  it  cost  me  my  life." 

A  flush  burned  on  his  cheek,  and  the  lion 
looked  from  under  his  bent  brows.  Then  a 
sad,  penitent  expression  succeeded,  and  he 
murmured,  "  O  my  God,  that  hellish  hate 
is  not  yet  dead  within  my  heart !  How  can  I 
hope  for  mercy  when  my  soul  is  filled  with 
that  dark  passion !  " 

"  Can  you  still  hope  ? "  said  the  poor 
mother ;  "  for  me  all  hope  is  gene,  my 
heart  hopes  no  more,"  —  and  indeed  her 
worn  face  and  downcast  eyes  declared 
it. 

"  Yes,  I  still  hope,"  replied  Mr.  Vande- 
leur. "  I  think  I  shall  find  her  at  last." 

Opening  his  desk,  he  took  from  it  a  roll 
of  bank-notes,  and,  laying  aside  the  thirty 
scudi  for  Antonio,  he  gave  the  n  mr.inder 
to  the  woman.  Then  with  many  expres- 
sions of  kindness  he  sent  her  away,  telling 
her  she  was  weary  and  had  need  of  rest. 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


89 


After  she  had  gone  he  opened  again  his 
desk,  and,  taking  from  it  a  package  of  letters 
addressed  to  him  in  a  scrawling  childish 
hand,  he  read  them  over  and  over,  pn-:--in<_r 
them  to  his  lips  and  wetting  them  with  his 
tear?. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  it  has  needed  all  these 
years  of  suffering  to  soften  my  heart  suffi- 
ciently to  believe  her  innocent,  and  now, 
when  at  last  the  conviction  has  dawned 
upon  me,  it  is  too  late  to  make  any  repara- 
tion. '-But  thank  God,  to-night  1  do  feel 
that  she  was  innocent,  and  if  she  lives  she 
loves  me  still." 


CHAPTER    XXXHI. 

SANS   SOTJCI. 

OOK!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tremaine 
to  Florence  one  afternoon,  as  they 
stood  on  tha  loygia  at  Sans  Souci,  watching 
the  ves-els  that  glided  by  into  the  little 
marina  bslow.  "  Look  !  there  comes  Fit;:- 
haven's  boat  for  the  third  time  this  week. 
You  must  be  the  attraction  that  brings  him 
here.  I  should  think  Guido  would  ba 
jealous." 

'•  1  an  sure  I  don't  want  to  see  him," 
said  Florence,  blushing  and  pouting.  "  Mam- 
ma and  I  were  going  down  to  the  beach  to 
meet  Guido,  and  now  I  shall  not  be_able  to 
go,  because  Fifczhaven  will  think  1  have 
come  to  welcome  him,  and  I  am  not  glad 
at  all  that  he  has  come." 

Constance  sat  under  the  shade  of  the 
trellis  with  a  book  in  her  hand,  and  as  she 
listened  to  Florence's  reply,  she  thought, 
"  She  certainly  loves  Guido ;  yes,  she 
loves  him  !  Dear  child !  I  will  never  come 
between  her  and  her  happiness.  If  for  a 
little  time  he  fancied  he  cared  for  me,  it  is 
over  now,  and  he  is  becoming  very  fond  of 
Florence ;  they  are  always  together,  and 
Lady  Dins:norti  see-us  to  encourage  it." 

At  th  it  mxn.mt  Lidy  Dinsmore  appeared 
on  the  /«.'/'/ •''">  her  hat  and  parasol  in  her 
hand.  "  Are  you  ready,  Fiorenca,  for  your 
walk  1  and  are  you  not  going,  girls  t  We 
promise!  Gjido  to  come  do*n  and  walk 
back  with  him  after  he  had  finished 
fishing." 

"  O,  here  they  come  !  "  exclaimed  Helen, 
"  Fitzhaven  and  Guido  together,  run- 
ning and  springing  up  the  rocks  like  two 
goats." 

"  Gaido  never  walks  up  the  steps,"  said 
Florence,  "  unless  he  has  mamma  on  his  arm  ; 
he  prefers  coining  up  the  shorter,  siee-pe-r 
way ;  an;l  lu>,  is  so  full  of  spirits  here  he 
does  not  se-.'ni  at  all  as  he  did  in  Rome." 

"Pool1  b;>y  !"  remarked  Lady  Dinsmore, 
looking  d.)\vn  on  the  two  young  men  as  they 
came  scrambling  up  the  steep  ascent,  laugh- 
12 


ing  and   shouting.     "  lie  is  free   from   the 
restraint  of  the  prieste*  drese  and  their  sur-^ 
veillance ;  no  wonder  he  is  happy.     I  hope 
he  will  never  put  his  robes  on  a^:  in." 

In  a  moment  they  appeared  <  n  the 
lor;yia,  —  Guido  no  longer  drei-sed  in  b!ack, 
sad  and  pale,  but  in  a  white  lir.cn  fuit, 
scarlet  tie,  and  broad-biin,u.tel  t-iraw  hat; 
his  face  darkened  by  the  tun,  ar.d  lii>  1  rown 
hair  in  curly  disorder.  Ik-  elM  ii.elecd  look 
different  from  the  Guido  of  Re  me. 

But  for  some  rca?cn  Ccns-t:  i:«  j  leferred 
him  in  his  gown  and  mat  tic,  —  rale  and 
sad.  She  did  not  like  to  MC  him  tin 
happy,  for  then  the  the ught  he  vas  not 
pining  for  her.  Fcolith  girl  !  the  tl:culd 
have  known  that  thcte  wire  the  vi  ryh: }  \  ie-t-t 
hours  cf  his  Hie  because  he  was  always  in 
her  fcciety,  because  he  was  e'.en  e  tiieated 
under  the  f  erne  reef  with  her,  and  taw  her 
fmly  and  without  leMrair.t. 

Fitzhaven  was  a  irr.r.k,  genial  ycung 
Scotchman,  who  wrs  Breeding  (he  f  tinner 
at  Sorento  with  Ins  guaidian.  He  certainly 
found  the  ecciely  ctcm-icg  at  Srrs-  Sici.  if 
ore  could  judge  by  the  lreei:ciey  with 
which  his  litt'e  let,  with  if:-  <_:.\  sfiijed 
awning  and  blue-thiiled  sailers  lowed  into 
the  marina. 

And  the  kdies  all  liked  him,  he  was  so 
gay  and  cmuting,  ar.d  l.is  tr  at  \\a>  to  ecm- 
lortable  for  their  evenings  en  the  bay. 
Guido  and  he  were  fafthiecds,  red.  ttrange 
to  say,  if  he  loved  Flcutco, —  :  i  d  Florence 
was  evidently  the  attiaeiicr.  toFi(:l,avcn, — 
Guido  was  net  a  bit  jealous  oi  1m. 

Nearly  three  rtcEtls  h:  el  ja;fid  since 
they  carte  to  Sfns  Fcvei.  ;iei  ,liv  were 
now  in  the  middle  cf  July;  \et  i  one  of 
them  cculd  realize  Lew  so  nnh  i'n.e  had 
gone  except  JMrs.  Tren.aire,  vLo  cften 
steed  locking  to\\?.id  Rcir.e,  end  Urging 
fcr  wings  Ibat  the  ni<  Lt  fly  brek  to  (he  old 
palace  under  the  Pircio.  rod  sit  for  rn  heur 
in  the  presence  cf  ere'  :1  e  s-liil  v<i  1  :j  ]  iel. 
Outwardly  the  teen  eel  h;  ]  ]  y,  il  01  ;.  h  Mr. 
Carnegie,  who  watcl.cc!  Icr  vi.l  11  starv- 
ing care,  noticed  a*  certain  i>  •>  in 
her  manner. 

She  liked  to  go  en  the  rea  vl.en  the  wind 
blew  and  the  oiler  ladies  e'ncd  not  ven- 
ture. When  (ley  v. eic  balking  en  the 
beach,  twiee  the- 1  t'ei  walkt  el  ml  1  e  ye  nd  her 
depth,  and  would  ha'ie  ttcn  diowied  if 
Guido,  who  was  a  or]  i(al  tvin  in  r.  1  ::d  not 
^ave>d  her.  Then  fhe  would  ]er.-i:t  in  <:oing 
prrilously  near  tin-  }  i 1( '  '1  'tlC8> 

and,  loeiking  into  ihe  j.l:  e'e!  vnie  i    :.i  be-low, 
she  would  ssy,  wiih  (H  i  e-  <  n  her 

t;:rc.  and  a  lemj>in-j;  !e:ok  in  l.t-r  ejes,  "  How 
ucaceful  all   is  elown  iheiv  !      Il    veuld   not 
be  so  \crv  terrible-  to  be   rcekiil    lei  s-\  i  p  on 
ihosei     bliie-.    wavi  s"      The-n    Mr.     C;ii 
1  would  put  his  arm  around  Le-i ,  and  eh  aw  her 
|  away  forcibly,  saying  sternly  and  teve-re-ly, 


90 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


while  his  face  grew  white  with  some  hidden 
emotion,  "  Why  will  you  expose  yourself  to 
such  danger  ?  " 

"  Nothing  seems  danger  here,"  she  would 
reply,  "  the  sea  is  so  calm  and  lovely  ;  but 
it  is  like  the  face  of  humanity,  one  does  not 
know  what  is  concealed  beneath." 

She  always  preferred  Mr.  Carnegie's 
society  to  any  other ;  she  clung  to  him  like  a 
spoiled,  ailing  child,  and  he  was  intensely 
happy  to  be  the  slave  of  every  whim. 

"  What  an  enigma  Mrs.  Tremaine  is  i " 
said  Madame  Landel  to  Lady  Dinsmore. 
"  She  seems  as  much  in  love  now  with  Mr. 
Carnegie  as  she  did  last  winter  with  the 
Prince.  1  sometimes  think  she  has  no 
heart." 

But  Lady  Dinsmore,  who  saw  further 
than  Madame  Landel  into  Helen  Tremaine's 
character,  sighed  as  she  said,  "  Poor  girl !  I 
fear  she  is  not  happy.  Yet  I  think  she  will 
marry  Mr.  Carnegie  in  time." 

That  same  evening  Mr.  Carnegie  and 
Helen  walked  slowly  back  and  forth  alone 
on  the  loggia,  the  others  having  gone  for  a 
moonlight  row  in  Fitzhaven's  boat.  She 
suddenly  broke  the  silence  by  looking  up  in 
his  face  and  saying,  "  Mr.  Carnegie,  you 
remember  a  year  ago  in  Paris  you  asked 
me  to  bs  your  wife ;  I  refused  you  then,  but 
if  you  still  love  me,  and  wish  it,  I  will 
marry  you." 

"  O  Helen '  "  he  exclaimed  joyfully,  "  do 
you  mean  it  ?  " 

"  Wait,"  she  said,  interrupting  him,  "  wait 
until  you  have  heard  all  I  have  to  say.  I 
do  not  mean  that  I  would  wish  to  marry  you 
just  yet,  not  for  a  year  or  two  perhaps,  but 
I  should  like  to  be  engaged  to  you  publicly 
before  we  go  back  to  Rome.  Don't  be  sur- 
prised that  I  speak  to  you  in  this  strange 
manner.  You  remember  that  day  when  we 
were  talking  on  the  balcony  in  Rome  ?  I 
told  you  a  storm  was  about  to  burst  upon 
me,  and  when  it  came  I  should  fly  to  you 
for  protection.  The  storm  has  broken  over 
my  head,  and  I  need  the  shelter  of  your 
name,  your  love.  But  I  must  not,  I  cannot 
deceive  you.  I  love  another,  and  I  have 
seen  nothing  beyond  that  passion  for  a  long 
tune.  1  hope  I  shall  conquer  it  at  last,  and 
come  to  love  you,  not  as  I  love  this  other, 
but  enough  to  make  you  a  good  wife,  and 
to  be  very  happy  with  you.  Can  you  be 
contented  with  that  affection  ?  Indeed,  it  is 
all  I  shall  ever  have  to  give."  She  looked 
in  his  faoe  with  wistful  eyes  and  quivering 
lips,  waiting  for  his  reply. 

There  was  a  terrible  struggle  going  on  in 
the  heart  of  the  man ;  his  face  was  ashy 
pale,  and  his  brow  contracted.  What  she 
had  said  seemed  to  wring  his  soul.  At 
length  the  words  burst  from  him  as  though 
compelled  by  a  power  superior  to  his  own 
strength  and  judgment. 


"  Helen,  I  love  you  so  madly,  so  entirely, 
that  though  it  breaks  my  heart  to  hear  you 
say  you  cannot  love  me  as  you  love  this 
other  man,  yet  I  will  be  satisfied  with  what 
you  have  to  offer  me.  I  would  rather  have 
your  friendship  than  any  other  woman's 
love.  If  my  deepest  devotion  and  tender- 
ness can  lighten  your  burden,  come  to  my 
heart  and  arms,  as  a  weary,  suffering  ehild 
to  a  mother.  I  will  be  to  you  only  what 
you  wish,  as  I  told  you  long  ago.  If  my 
name  and  position  can  lie  arty  protection  to 
you,  they  are  yours,  with  my  heart  and 
life !  " 

She  nestled  close  to  him,  like  a  wounded 
bird  that  had  at  last  dropped  down  into  the 
shelter  of  its  nest,  and  said,  as  she  pressed 
his  hand  to  her  lips,  "  Dear,  true  heart, 
I  will  try  to  be  worthy  of  your  love." 
Just  then  a  cloud  passed  over  the  moon, 
and  Mr.  Carnegie  could  not  see  the  ghastly 
pallor  of  the  'face  that  nestled  against  his 
shoulder,  for  a  dark  shadow  had  lallen  over 
both. 

The  next  morning  they  announced  their 
engagement.  Lady  Dinsmcre  silked  as  she 
said  she  hoped  they  would  be  very  happy, 
but  for  some  reason  none  of  the  congratula- 
tions seemed  cheerful. 

No  spot  was  ever  more  appropriately 
named  than  this  villa;  it  was  indeed  sansKouci, 
for  the  days  seemed  to  fly  off  without  a  care. 
It  was  almost  impossible  to  be  very  unhnppy 
in  this  lovely  retreat,  surrounded  by  the 
most  beautiful  scenes  in  nature.  The  bluest 
sea,  the  bluest  sky,  the  vine-clad  hills,  the 
purple  mountains,  Vesuvius  stretching  out 
his  smoky  hand  over  the,  lovely  xuin  below, 
Pompeii  and  Herculaneum  revealing  to  the 
eye  of  day  and  the  wondering  eyes  of  man 
their  long-hidden  treasures  of  beauty  and 
art ;  the  fairy  isles  lying  on  the  bosom  of 
the  sea,  like  jewels  dropped  from  the  hand 
of  God;  the  white  sails  of  the  ships  passing 
far  below ;  the  tiny  beats,  with  their  float- 
ing pennons  and  gay  sails  ;  the  clear  thril- 
ling voice  of  the  sailor,  singing  the  wild 
sweet  songs  of  his  lovely  land,  —  ail  formed 
an  endless  variety  to  interest  the  sad  heait 
and  delight  the  wearied  eye. 

Lady  Dinsrnore  seemed  to  live  during 
these  days  in  a  sort  of  double  existence, 
and  Constance  often  wondered  Florence  did 
not  notice  her  mamma's  dreamy  abstraction  ; 
but  the  girl  was  young  and  happy,  and  had 
never  been  acquainted  with  sorrow.  How 
could  she  understand  its  signs  in  another? 

Far  below  them,  on  a  little  peak,  nestled 
a  tiny  white  villa.  Lady  Din ?  more  would 
sit  for  hours  on  the  loggia,  her  eyes  fixed  in- 
tently on  that  spot ;  sometimes,  when  she 
believed  herself  to  be  unnoticed,  the  large 
tears  would  fall  slowly,  and  drop,  one  by 
one,  on  her  folded  hands,  and  almost  invol- 
untarily, while  an  expression  of  ineffable 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


91 


tenderness  passed  over  her  face,  she  would 
murmur,  "  My  darling,  my  darling  !  "  Tin-re 
was  certainly  some  hidden  history  connect- 
ed with  the  life  of  this  adorable  woman 
that  had  influenced  her  whole  nature,  —  a 
memory  that  filled  her  gentle  heart  with 
pity  for  all  humanity. 

One  day  she  made  a  pilgrimage  to  this 
little  villa  alone.  The  house  was  closed, 
but  the  old  gardener  admitted  her,  wonder- 
ing why  this  lovely  lady  gazed  at  him  with 
such  a  longing  expression  in  her  eyes.  As 
ghe  entered,  she  looked  >ack  at  the  man,  and. 
shaking  her  head,  she  said  mournfully,  "  No, 
no,  it  cannot  be  the  same ;  it  is  so  long,  and 
time  changes  one  so."  She  crossed  a  little 
salon,  with  worn,  faded  furniture,  and,  enter- 
ing a  small  bedroom  with  a  gay-tiled  floor 
and  a  strip  of  faded  carpet  before  the  white- 
curtained  bed,  sank  on  her  knees,  and, 
burying  her  face  in  the  pillows,  sobbed  con- 
vulsively, moaning  between  her  sobs. 

"  After  all  these  years  it  is  as  fresh  in  my 
memory  as  though  it  were  but  yesterday. 
O  my  darling  !  ail  is  unchanged,  but  you  are 
no  longer  here.  If  1  could  see  you  for  one 
moment,  if  I  could  but  hear  you  speak 
in  the  only  tones  that  ever  thrilled  my 
heart !  " 

The  wind  gently  waved  the  white  cur- 
tains, a  trailing  vine  rustled  and  shivered 
in  the  sunlight,  a  bird  sailing  by  on  light 
wing  uttered  a  shrill  joyous  song ;  but  still 
the  gentle  woman  knelt  there,  forgetful  of 
the  present.  Her  soul  had  wandered  back, 
far  back  into  the  silent  past.  She  was  liv- 
ing over  those  hours  that  are  given  to  us  but 
once  in  a  life. 

The  old  gardener  wondered  why  she  re- 
mained so  long,  and  looked  at  her  almost 
awe-stricken  as  she  came  out,  hsr  pale  face 
illumined  with  a  light  not  of  earth,  and  a 
smile  of  deep  peace  on  her  lips.  She  had 
held  communion  with  the  spirit  of  the  past, 
and  a  voice  of  thrilling  sweetness  had  whis- 
pered to  her,  "  Patience,  patience,  my  be- 
loved !  a  little  longer,  and  thou  shalt  coine 
to  me." 

And  so  she  went  back  to  her  child  and 
her  other  lift,  the  life  she  lived  before  the 
world,  and  none  imagined,  save  Constance, 
that  to  her  each  day  was  a  double  existence, 
—  the  duality  of  the  present  and  the  past. 

So  peaceful  was  their  retreat,  so  retired 
from  the  world,  that  they  knew  very  little 
of  the  political  struggle  that  was  going  on 
in  the  north  of  Italy.  Parma,  Modena,  and 
Milan  had  arisen  in  amass,  driven  out  their 
princes  and  dukes,  and  united  themselves 
under  one  government.  The  great  cry  of 
the  nation  was  union,  —  union  first,  and 
after  union  liberty. 

They  read  the  papers  that  came  irregular- 
ly, and  afterward  Guido  would  remain  very 
thoughtful  for  some  time,  and  then  he  would 


exclaim,  "  Poor,  poor  Italy  !  O,  if  I  could 
do  something  for  my  suffering  country  !  " 

At  that  period  it  was  dangerous  for  any  one 
to  express  a  patriotic  sentiment,  especially 
any  one  in  the  service  of  the  Pope ;  and  what- 
ever desires  failed  his  heart,  he  felt  the  time 
was  not  come  to  act.  But  sometimes  he  would 
say  in  confidence  to  Lady  Dinsmore  and  Con- 
stance, "I  fed  a  terrible  s>-ll-reproach  to  re- 
main here  in  idleness  and  luxury  when  my 
suffering  country  has  need  of  my  young  life 
and  strong  arm ;  but  later  J  will  make 
amends.  If  Garibaldi  needs  me,  1  am  ready. 
It  is  for  the  liberty  of  Italy  I  would  light. 
Yes,  I  would  give  my  heart's  blood  if  Italy 
were  free." 

They  were  spending  a  few  days  on  the 
enchanting  island  of  Capri,  and  one  lovely 
morning  three  small  boats  containing  the 
party  started  to  vi?it  the  world-famed  blue 
grotto.  The  entrance  is  so  low  that  even 
in  a  calm  ?ea  it  is  necessary  to  lie  quite 
flat  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  to  prevent 
coming  in  contact  with  the  rocks.  They 
all  passed  in  safely,  with  much  laughing 
and  protesting  on  the  part  of  the  ladies 
at  the  apparent  impossibility  of  accoinodat- 
ing  themselves  to  the  small  space.  But 
when  they  had  once  entered  the  charmed 
precincts,  all  sense  of  discomfort  was  for- 
gotten, and  simultaneous  exclamations  of 
"  What  a  heavenly  blue !  Have  you  ever 
seen  such  a  blue  t "  arose  from  every  lip. 
"  The  sky  that  bends  above  Paradise,  and 
the  waters  of  the  River  of  Life,"  said  Lady 
Dinsmore. 

"It  must  have  been  a,  favorite  haunt  of 
sea-nymphs,  the  very  abode  of  Amphitrite," 
remarked  Mrs.  Tremaine. 

"  Fancy  Neptune  coming  on  his  dolphin 
to  sue  for  the  hand  of  the  most  beautiful  of 
all  the  nereids,"  said  Mr.  Carne^i  . 

"  What  an  ungainly  figure  the  old  fellow 
must  have  made,  entering  by  that  low  door ! " 
laughed  Fitzhaven. 

"  O,"  said  Florence,  seriously,  "  you  don't 
think  he  came  in  as  we  did  !  What  a  funny 
sight,  lying  flat  on  the  back  of  his  dolphin, 
or  dodiring  his  head  about,  that  his  crown 
and  trident  might  not  be  injured  by  the 
rocks  !  How  do  you  think  he  entered  ?  " 
turning  to  Guido,  who  usually  settled  all 
disputed  matters. 

"  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it,"  replied  Gui- 
do. "  Do  you  see  that  rock  m  the  form  of 
a  great  chair?  Well,  in  those  irreclaimable 
days  that  was  a  throne,  covered  with  coral 
nn'l  precious  stones.  The  lovely  Amphitrite 
sat  there  in  her  gauzy  robes,  her  golden  locks 
dripping  with  diamonds  of  tin1  :e:i.  j  earls  on 
her  neck  and  bosom,  and  crystal  san- 
dals on  her  little  feet.  She  heard  afar  <>lf 
the  horn  of  her  lover,  as  he  approached,  all 
the  monsters  of  the  de:-;>  following  in  his 
train.  With  one  touch  of  his  trident  the 


92 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


rocks  flew  open  like  magic  doors,  and  he  en- 
tered into  the  presence  of  his  beloved  with 
the  dignity  befitting  a  god." 

"  How  do  you  know  all  this,  Guido  ?  I 
am  sure  mythology  does  not  tell  us  so,"  said 
Florence. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  laughing,  "  the  birds  of 
the  ah*  and  the  fishes  of  the  sea  have  told  me. 
The  serpents  have  licked  my  ears  as  they 
did  those  of  Melampus,  and  I  understand 
the  language  of  dumb  nature."  Putting 
his  hand  into  the  water,  he  drew  from  the 
rock  a  crab,  and,  holding  it  to  his  ear,  he 
said  seriously,  "  It  has  spoken  to  me,  and 
told  me  this  grotto  is  still  visited  by  nymphs 
and  angel's."  He  stood  up  in  the  boat  as  he 
spoke,  and  Florence,  in  return  for  his  compli- 
menf,  dipped  her  white  hand  into  the  water 
and  flung  some  in  his  face.  Starting  back 
to  evade  it,  he  lost  his  balance,  and  before  a 
helping  hand  could  be  stretched  out  he  fell 
heavily  back  ward,  his  head  striking  a  project- 
ing rock  as  he  went  down.  Constance  caught 
a  glimpse  of  his  white  face,  white  as  carved 
marble,  as  he  sank  in  the  blue  depths,  and 
a  piercing  cry  escaped  from  her  livid  lips,  — 
a  cry  of  such  anguish  that  it  revealed  her 
secret  to  all,  —  "  O  my  God,  he  is  dead  !  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Carnegie,  "  he  is  only 
stunned  by  the  force  of  the  blow." 

Two  sailors  had  already  gone  down,  and 
in  a  moment  they  appeared,  supporting  him 
between  them.  With  some  effort  they  laid 
him  in  the  boat,  his  head  on  Constance's 
lap ;  his  eyes  were  closed,  and  indeed  he 
did  look  as  though  life  had  left  him. 

"  His  heart  beats,"  said  Mr.  Carnegie,  lean- 
ing forward  and  unfastening  his  waistcoat. 

Constance  sat  as  pale  and  still  as  he,  his 
cold  hand  clasped  in  hers,  and  her  eyes  de- 
vouring his  face. 

"  Oh  ! "  said  Florence,  bursting  into  tears, 
"  it  was  my  fault ;  if  I  had  not  thrown  the 
water,  he  would  not  have  fallen ! " 

"  Hush,  darling,"  said  Lady  Dinsmore, 
with  lips  so  white  and  trembling  they  could 
scarcely  frame  the  words ;  "  let  us  hope  it  is 
nothing  serious,  he  will  be  better  in  a  mo- 
ment." 

While  she  spoke,  Guido  opened  his  eyes 
and  looked  around  rather  confused ;  then 
putting  his  hand  to  his  head,  they  noticed 
his  hair  was  wet  with  blood.  Constance 
gave  a  little  cry  of  horror,  and  pressed  her 
handkerchief  to  it. 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  Madame  Landel, 
parting  his  hair,  — "  nothing  but  a  scratch." 

Guido  did  not  speak ;  he  lay  pale  and 
silent,  looking  into  the  face  bending  above 
him.  There  was  no  longer  any  disguise,  a 
moment  of  danger  had  revealed  what  they 
both  had  tried  to  conceal. 

They  went  out  of  the  grotto  more  quietly 
than  they  had  entered,  their  spirits  subdued 
by  the  little  adventure.  Guido  tried  to  in- 


sist on  walking  from  the  boat  to  the  hotel, 
but  Lady  Dinsmore  would  not  move  until 
she  had  seen  him  placed  in  a  chair,  and  car- 
ried by  two  sailors.  It  was  true  he  was 
very  weak  and  very  wet,  and  his  head  ached 
terribly,  but  he  was,  nevertheless,  very 
happy. 

The  next  morning  he  was  as  well  and  gay 
as  ever,  so  after  breakfast  the  younger  mem- 
bers of  the  party  climbed  to  the  top  of  a 
ruined  fortress.  There,  in  a  little  hut  built 
of  loose  stones,  blocks  of  marble,  and  broken 
capitals,  they  found  an  old  man,  .so  old  and 
withered  that  he  too  seemed  a  fragment  of 
the  remains  of  the  past.  On  the  summit  of 
the  hill  was  a  rustic  Campo  Santo,  and 
within  the  crumbling  fortress  a  few  graves, 
overgrown  with  brambles  and  deadly  night- 
shade. The  old  man  hobbled  after  them, 
gazing  with  a,  sort  of  awe  into  the  faces  of 
the  lovely  girls,  who,  in  their  pure  white 
dresses,  seemed  to  him  like  angels,  who  had 
alighted  for  one  moment  among  the  ruins  of 
past  grandeur. 

"  What  a  contrast,"  said  Fitzhaven  aside 
to  Guido,  —  "  these  lovely  girls  and  the  old 
man, —  age  and  youth,  the  past  and  the 
present,  hideousness  and  beauty  !  1  wish  I 
were  an  artist,  that  I  might  make  a  sketch." 

"  Why  are  these  graves  apart  from  the 
others?"  inquired  Guido  of  the  old  man, 
pointing  to  the  forlorn-locking  mounds. 

"Oh!"  he  replied,  "suicides  are  buried 
here  ;  you  should  know  it  by  these,"  touch- 
ing with  his  stick  the  nightshade. 

"Perche?"  asked  Fitzhaven,  with  curi- 
osity. 

"Perche,  Signore,"  said  the  old  man ;  "  after 
our  bodies  are  dead  they  return  to  the  earth, 
and  spring  up  in  one  form  or  another;  look 
how  all  the  rest  of  the  graves  are  covered 
with  flowers,  but  never  a  flower  grows  over 
the  guilty,  only  brambles  and  poisonous 
weeds.  Come  with  me,  and  I  will  show  you 
the  contrary  on  the  grave  of  the  innocent." 

He  led  them  to  a  mound  under  a  graceful 
acacia.  "  Here,"  he  said,  "  lies  one  who 
was  as  fair  as  she  with  the  dark  hair,"  point- 
ing to  Constance.  "  Ah,  Santa  Madonna  ! 
she  died  fifty  years  ago,  and  I  have  watched 
this  spot  ever  since."  He  uncovered  his  head 
ar-d  knelt  reverently,  pressing  some  white 
azalias  to  his  lips. 

"  0  Signor  mio  !  how  I  loved  her !  every 
one  of  tliese  flowers  are  a  part  of  her,  and 
I  love  them.  I  shelter  them  iroin  the 
wind  and  sun,  and  water  them  with  my 
tears.  She  was  too  young  to  die,  only  six- 
teen, and  so  lovely.  I  used  to  think  she 
must  be  like  the  Blessed  Madonna,  her  smile 
was  so  sweet,  and  she  was  so  holy."  There 
was  a  pathos  in  the  old  man's  voice,  a  real 
grief  in  his  quivering  tones,  that  filled  their 
eyes  with  tears  as  they  turned  awr.y. 

"  What  strong  contrasts  there  arc  in  life  !  " 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


93 


said  Mrs.  Tremaine.  "  This  old  man  stand- 
ing among  the  ruins,  so  old  that  he  seems 
never  to  have  been  young;,  talking  to  us  of 
his  buried  hope?,  buried  fifty  years  ago,  and 
we,  his  listeners,  on  the  verge  of  life,  with 
the  dawn  of  hope  in  our  hearts,  listen,  and 
wonder  at  the  endurance  of  love." 

They  stood  for  a  moment  looking  out  over 
the  broad  blue  sea  that  surrounded  them. 
The  free  morning  breeze  fanned  their 
cheeks  and  nestled  in  their  hair ;  it  spoke 
of  the  youth  and  freshness  of  nature,  the 
eternal  renewing  of  all  but  man's  desires 
and  joys.  Yes,  the  fresh  wind  and  the  blue 
sea,  danced  and  frolicked  in  the  glad  sun- 
light as  it  did  more  than  eighteen  hundred 
years  ago,  when  the  tyrant  Caesar  looked 
over  the  lovely  scene  from  the  summit  of  his 
proud  palace,  that  now  lay  in  crumbling 
ruins,  —  the  grave  of  despair,  ambition, 
love,  and  hope. 

They  filled  the  old  man's  hand  with  silver, 
and,  turning,  went  down  the  mountain,  — 
Constance  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Guido,  and 
Florence  dancing  before  them  like  a  sun- 
beam, sending  back  bright  smiles  and  gay 
words  to  Fitzhaven,  who  followed. 

Youth,  bsauty,  and  love,  hand  in  hand, 
descended  to  the  valley  below,  leaving  the 
old  man  to  watch,  as  he  had  done  for  fifty 
years,  the  grave  of  his  dead  love  among 
the  ruins  of  a  long-vanished  glory. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  LADY  DINSMORE'S  LIFE. 

GUIDO  had  gone  to  Rome  for  a  few  days 
to  sing  at  the  feast  of  the  Assumption, 
and  they  were  all  mourning  over  his  absence. 
Constance  did  not  say  the  days  seemed  long 
and  dull  without  him,  but  she  thought  so 
every  hour  in  the  twenty-four,  and  Lady 
Dinsmore  was  always  saying, "  I  wish  Guido 
were  back,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  miss 
him." 

Then  Florence  would  say,  laughing,  but 
with  affected  displeasure,  "  I  am  really 
glad  he  is  gone,  1  am  so  jealous  of  him.  I 
am  sure  mamma  loves  him  better  than  she 
does  me." 

"  Selfish  child,  are  you  not  willing  I  should 
give  a  little  affection  to  this  poor  boy,  who 
has  neither  mother  nor  sister?  "  And  then, 
when  Florence  was  out  of  hearing,  she 
would  say,  "  I  think  with  all  the  dear  girl's 
apparent  indifference,  she  loves  Guido,  and 
I  know  he  is  very  fond  of  her.  If  they 
really  love  each  other,  I  shall  never  separate 
them  ;  she  shall  be  his  wife,  she  has  wealth 
enough  for  both." 

Constance  would  smile  quietly  to  herself, 
and  think,  "  Dear  mother,  you  are  a  little 


blind ;  cannot  you  see  that  Florence  is  be- 
coming every  day  more  intere-tcd  in  Fitz- 
haven ?  "  But  we  are  apt  to  think  what  we 
wi-h  will  be,  and  Lady  Dinsmore  loved 
Guido  with  a  deep  affection,  and  would 
have  been  happy  to  have  called  him  her 
son. 

For  some  weeks  a  sure,  but  almost  imper- 
ceptible, change  had  passed  over  the  gentle 
woman.  None  noticed  it  as  Constance  did, 
for  no  one  patched  her  so  closely,  and  be- 
fore no  other  person  did  .'•he  throw  aside  the 
veil  that  hid  her  inmost  heart.  Her  child, 
ignorant  of  the  signs  of  sorrow,  only  thought 
mamma  a  little  weak  and  languid,  —  a  sort 
of  debility  that  would  pass  away  with  the 
warm  weather.  But  Constance  knew  a 
hidden  corroding  grief,  in  some  way  con- 
nected with  this  spot,  was  consuming  the 
strength  and  life  of  her  adored  friend. 

One  evening  they  were  all  on  the  sea 
except  Lady  Dinsmore  and  Constance, 
who  preferred  remaining  on  one  of  the 
heights  in  the  garden  of  the  villa,  where 
there  was  a  rustic  seat  under  some  orange- 
trees. 

The  nightingales  sang  ;  the  air  was  heavy 
with  perfume  ;  the  sea  flowed  at  their  feet, 
golden  with  sunset,  overshot  with  silver 
rays  from  the  rising  moon.  The  voice  of  a 
marinaro  singing  the  songs  of  Santa  Lucia, 
while  he  mended  his  nets  on  the  f-hore, 
mingled  with  the  clear  laugh  of  Florence,  as 
the  gay  little  boat,  with  its  merry  party, 
pushed  off  toward  the  purple  islands. 

Lady  Dinsmore  sat  by  the  side  of  Con- 
stance, her  head  resting  on  the  shoulder  of 
the  girl,  who  lately  was  her  inseparable 
companion.  Both  were  silent.  Constance 
was  thinking  of  a  low  marble  slab,  above 
which  the  tall  rank  grass  nodded  and 
rustled  in  the  evening  air ;  a  row  of  dark 
linden-trees,  and  the  round  yellow  moon 
floating  above  the  spire  of  Hehnsford  church ; 
an  old  man  with  long  white  hair  and  weary 
folded  hands,  a  voice  feeble  and  gentle, 
saying  tenderly,  "  My  child ! "  then  a 
younger  face,  with  glorious  dark  eyes,  and 
a  smile  of  deep  affection  upturned  to  hers, 
as  he  lay  pale  and  exhausted  with  his  head 
in  her  lap,  while  their  boat  floated  out  from 
the  grotto  of  mystic  blue. 

O,  how  happy  she  had  been  since  that 
morning  when  a  blessed  accident  had  iv- 
vealed  to  her  the  strength  of  her  cwn  love 
and  the  heart  of  the  one  she  worshipped  I 
Although  no  words  had  been  exchanged 
between  them,  a  thousand  little  acts  and  the 
language  of  the  eyes  had  toll  her  all  she 
wished  to  know.  She  felt  Guido  was  only 
waiting  until  his  return  from  Rome  to  ask 
her  to  become  his  wife.  Now  s-he  had  re- 
solved to  put  aside  every  barrirr  of  pride 
and  the  world's  opinion,  to  unite  her  des- 
tiny to  the  onlv  man  she  could  ever  love, 


94 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


her  heart  was  lightened  of  a  heavy  burden, 
and  she  was  happy.  Absorbed  in  her  own 
pleasant  musings,  she  was  almost  unmindful 
of  the  presence  of  her  friend  until  a  long- 
drawn,  weary  sigh  caused  her  to  look  up. 
Lady  Dinsmore's  eyes  were  filled  with  tears, 
and  the  sad  mouth  quivered  with  the  effort 
of  self-control.  Gently  putting  her  arm 
around  her  shoulder,  and  drawing  her  a  lit- 
tle nearer,  Constance  said,  with  a  voice  of 
touching  interest,  "  You  are  unhappy  ;  will 
you  not  tell  me  the  cause  ?  Perhaps  my  j 
sympathy  may  be  of  some  comfort  to  you." 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  I  have  long  wished  to  tell 
you,  and  yet  I  hesitate  to   speak   of   an 
episode  in  my  life  that  is  passed  and  for- 
gotten by  all.     For  all  who  were  actors  in 
that  drama  are  sleeping  with  the  secret  shut  j 
close  in  their  still  hearts,  and  I  too  thought  j 
I  had  buried  it  so  deep  that   resurrection  | 
were  impossible ;  but  to-night  it  rises  before  | 
me  with  all  the  force  and  vividness  of  the  j 
hour  in  which  1  said,  '  I  shall  live  no  more, 
for  life  is  dead  within  me.'     Yes,  my  dear, 
I  will  open  to  you  this  book  of  the  past,  and 
we  will  read  its  pages  together,  and  then 
we  will  close  it  again  forever,  and  only  you 
will  know  how  I  have  suffered,  and  that  my 
heart  has  bled  as  well  as  yours. 

"  My  mother  was  a  Vandeleur,  —  a  cold, 
proud  woman,  entirely  devoted  to  the  world 
and  its  fashion.  My  father,  Lord  Radcliffe, 
was  one  of  the  most  dissipated  men  in  all 
England ;  warm-hearted  and  generous,  but 
extravagant  and  unscrupulous  to  a  fear- 
ful extent ;  loving  society,  his  club,  racing, 
and  the  hunt  better  than  his  wife  or  home. 
I  was  the  only  fruit  of  this  ill-assorted 
union  ;  my  father  never  cared  for  me  because 
he  wished  in  my  place  a  son ;  and  my 
mother  less,  because  she  was  too  selfish  to 
love  anything  but  herself,  or,  perhaps,  be- 
cause I  was  the  child  of  the  man  she  did  not 
love  on  the  day  of  her  marriage,  and  whom 
she  had  come  to  despise  and  hate  long  be- 
fore my  birth.  What  ever  was  the  cause  I 
know  not,  but,  as  soon  as  I  was  old  enough 
to  understand,  I  felt  that  my  mother  did  not 
love  me.  Nay,  her  entire  neglect  showed  she 
disliked  me.  In  my  infancy  I  was  given  to 
a  nurse ;  when  a  little  older,  to  a  French 
governess  of  rather  doubtful  morals,  un- 
scrupulous, indolent,  and  insincere.  Instead 
of  instructing  me  and  developing  what  was 
good  in  my  character,  she  spent  most  of  her 
time  at  her  toilet,  or  in  reading  French 
novels  of  a  most  questionable  kind.  I  can- 
not describe  to  you  how  lonely,  neglected, 
and  unconsjenial  my  childhood  was,  nor 
how  sadly  demoralizing  the  influences  that 
surrounded  my  early  youth. 

"  When  I  was  about  sixteen,  my  mother, 
discovering  that  I  was  pretty,  decided  that 
I  rhould  bo  very  accomplished ;  then  com- 
menced a  system  of  drudgery,  by  which  I 


was  expected  to  acquire  all  the  knowledge 
I  should  have  gained  during  the  yeais  of 
neglect  and  indolence  passed  umler  the 
charge  of  my  unfaithful  governess.  Dancing, 
music,  singing,  riding,  and  drawing  masters 
were  crowded  upon  me  until  my  Hie  became 
a  burden  and  my  health  began  to  give  way 
under  this  constant  application.  Then,  as 
my  voice  promised  to  be  wonderful,  my 
mother  concluded  to  take  me  abroad  and 
place  me  under  the  tuition  of  the  best 
master  Italy  could  produce.  I  longed  for  a 
change.  I  was  restless  and  unsatisfied  with 
my  life.  In  my  heart  was  a  constant  yearn- 
ing for  love  and  companionship.  No  one 
understood  me,  no  one  sympathized  with 
me.  I  had  a  warm,  passionate  nature, 
tenderly  alive  to  beauty  and  nobility  of 
character.  I  had  formed  my  ideal  of  manly 
perfection,  as  all  young  girls  do,  and  it  was 
very  different  from  my  father  and  the  friends 
who  surrounded  him.  I  saw  that  wealth 
and  title  did  not  bestow  happiness,  and  I 
early  determined,  if  I  married,  to  marry  a 
man  I  could  respect  for  his  talents  or  his 
nobility  of  nature. 

"  I  often  fancied  myself  in  a  vine-clad  cot- 
tage, hidden  in  the  bosom  of  a  murmuring 
forest,  where  the  birds  sang  all  day  and  the 
waters  leaped  from  rock  to  rock  sparkling  in 
the  sunlight ;  where  the  floAvcrs  bloomed  in 
never-fading  beauty,  untrodden  by  any  foot 
save  the  wild  gazelle  or  the  timid  hare  ;  and 
there  with  my  ideal  lover  I  thought  it  would 
be  sweet  to  dream  away  my  life.  1  wns  so 
weary,  even  at  that  age,  of  my  tun  windings,; 
the  world  and  the  fashion  thereof,  the  pomp 
and  splendor,  the  hypocrisy  and  wickedness, 
the  coldness  and  hollowness  of  every  tender 
relation  of  life,  disgusted  and  disenchanted 
me ;  and  then  I  longed  for  something  good 
and  true,  something  pure  and  calm,  far  from 
the  excitement  and  lever  of  the  world. 

"I  was  scarcely  seventeen  when,  after 
spending  the  winter  in  Florence,  we  went  to 
the  baths  of  Lucca  for  the  summer ;  there 
I  was  placed  under  the  charge  of  a  talented 
young  master,  a  Roman,  who  was  spending 
the  summer  in  that  lovely  lesort.  1  need 
not  tell  you  how  noble,  handsome,  rnd 
fascinating  he  was.  Guido  is  strangely  like 
him,  •  nd,  stranger  still,  he  bears  the  same 
name,  —  Guido  Bernardo.  Now  you  can 
understand  my  interest  in  him,  and  my  ill- 
concealed  agitation  the  first  time  I  heard 
his  voice,  and  the  first  time  my  eyes  fell  upon 
him.  It  seemed  as  though  the  fhost  of  my 
long-buried  love  arose  and  stood  before  me. 

"  Scarcely  had  we  met  when  we  loved 
each  other.  I  was  young  and  lovely,  he  was 
young,  handsome,  and  talented  ;'  anel  such  a 
noble,  gentle  nature  has  never  since  crossed 
my  path  until  I  met  Guido,  this  youth  who 
so  strangely  reminds  me  of  my  io'-t  elr.rling. 
O  Constance,  I  wish  I  could  describe  to 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


95 


you  the  blissful  hours  I  passed  in  his  so-  ! 
ciety.  I  was  passionately  fond  of  music, 
and  his  voice  filled  every  pulse  of  my  j 
being.  When  he  sang,  I  worshipped  him.  J 
have  heard  no  music  since  but  that  voice, 
it  has  filled  every  chamber  of  my  life.  I 
hear  it  always,  above  the  day's  discordant 
sounds  ;  at  midnight,  when  all  is  silent ;  in 
the  morning,  mingled  with  the  shrill  songs 
of  birds  and  tin  murmuring  of  the  breeze, 
with  the  laugh  of  my  child,  the  voice  of  my 
friends,  —  in  every  place,  in  every  hour ;  and 
the  roar  and  din  of  life  marreth  not  its 
melody.  I  shall  hear  it  again  when,  some 
blessed  morning,  the  golden  gates  shall  open 
to  admit  me,  into  the  eternal  city;  amonw 
the  angels  who  sing  before  the  throne  I 
shall  know  him  by  his  voice.  God  had 
need  of  him  to  complete  his  heavenly  choir, 
and  so  he  took  him,  leaving  me  to  long  for- 
ever for  the  time  when  I  shall  hear  him  sing 
again. 

"  The  summer  passed  away  in  blissful 
happiness  to  both.  I  saw  him  often,  for 
there  was  little  restraint  on  my  life.  I  was 
left  entirely  to  my  governess,  and  she  was 
much  too  iJIe  to  watch  me  ;  and  my  mother, 
too  proud  and  cold  herself  to  love  any  one, 
much  less  a  parson  beneath  her  in  social 
position,  never  dreamed  her  daughter  could 
commit  such  a  folly,  or  that  there  could  bo 
any  danger  in  exposing  her  to  the  society 
of  a  young  man,  of  whom  older  and  wiser 
hearts  had  owned  the  superior  attractions. 
I  saw  him  flattered  and  welcomed  every- 
where, and  it  was  said  a  Russian  princess 
was  dying  of  love  for  him.  I  cared  nothing 
for  the  diiFerence  in  our  social  position.  I 
only  knew  I  loved  him,  and  I  determined 
from  the  first  that  nothing  should  sepa- 
rate us. 

"  In  the  autumn,  after  spending  a  month 
in  Venice  with  a  large  fashionable  party  j 
of  which  he  wa<  the  greatest  attraction,  we 
went  to  Komi  for  the  winter,  that  I  still 
might  have  the  benefit  of  his  instruction. 
Our  delightful* meetings  were  somewhat  in- 
terrupted, and  I  only  saw  him  during  the 
hours  of  my  lessons,  or  when  I  met  him    in 
society.       Perhaps  my   mother    began    to  • 
suspect  thit  in  public  he  was  too  often  at  j 
my  sida,  f  jr  her  m inner  changed  toward  ! 
him ;  she  was  colder  and  less  cordial,  and  , 
my  governess  was   ordered  always  to    re- ! 
main    in    the    room    during     my    lessons,  j 
Sometimes,  whan  my  mother  had  gone  out  j 
on  her  round  of  fashionable    calls,  I  would  ; 
enjoy  a  few   blissful   moments    alone    with ! 
him  while  the   French  woman   lounged  in  j 
her  room  ancl  read  her  romances.     On  one 
of  these  rare  and  too  happy  occasions,  when 
we  believed  we  were   safe  from  intrusion, 
we  forgot  to  sing,  as  we  often  did,  and  fell 
into  an   absorbing  conversation,  of  which 
protestations   of   eternal    love   formed  the 


topic.  Like  Paulo  and  Francesca  da  Rimi- 
ni, we  read  no  more  that  day,  but  1,  stand- 
ing by  Guldo,  with  my  chevk  resting  on  his 
dark  hair,  and  encircled  by  his  arm,  li 
with  trembling  joy  to  that  old,  old  story 
that  will  never  end  while  the  stars  of  the 
morning  sing  together. 

"  The  door  opened  suddenly,  and  my 
mother,  pale  with  rage,  stood  before  us ;  her 
white  lips  uttered  no  words,  but  her  eyes 
burned  with  a  terrible  fury  that  seemed  to 
scorch  and  Vither  me.  Taking  me  by 
the  arm  with  so  strong  a  grasp  that  her 
delicate  fingers  left  purple  marks  on  my 
flesh,  she  led  me  to  my  room,  and,  closing 
the  door  upon  me,  turned  the  key  and  left 
me  alone,  a  prey  to  the  deepest  anguish. 
Then  she  returned  to  Guido,  who,  as  soon 
as  she  entered  his  presence,  calmly  and 
simply  told  her  the  story  of  our  love,  and 
implored  her  to  sanction  our  union.  She 
listened  to  him  in  haughty  silence,  and 
when  he  had  finished,  she  rang  for  the 
servant  to  open  the  door,  and,  without  a 
word,  turned  and  left  him. 

"  For  a  few  days  1  was  kept  a  close  pris- 
oner in  my  room,  seeing  no  one  but  my 
mother's  maid,  a  hard  cruel  woman,  from 
whom  I  learned  that  my  governess  had 
been  sent  away  immediately,  and  t-he  for 
the  present  was  to  wait  upon  me. 

"  I  sent  many  messages  to  my  mother,  a.ck 
ing  for  an  interview,  that  by  my  entreaties 
I  might  soften  her  heart  if  she  were  capable 
of  compassion ;  but  she  refused  to  see  me. 
I  felt  keenly  my  separation  from  Guido, 
even  for  a  few  days,  but  1  resolved  it  should 
not  be  long.  After  a  week  of  imprisonment 
I  was  allowed  the  freedom  of  the  house. 
One  day,  as  I  was  passing  through  the 
corridor  alone,  a  young  Italian  .-crvant, 
who  was  very  fond  of  me,  approached,  with 
her  finger  on  her  lip,  and,  drawing  from 
her  bosom  a  letter,  smilingly  placed  it  in 
my  hand  and  passed  on.  I  flew  to  my 
room  and  tore  it  open.  As  I  expected,  it 
was  from  Guido.  I  covered  it  with  tears 
and  kisses  before  I  read  it,  and  tlien  I  de- 
voured every  word.  It  was  clear,  concise, 
and  truthful".  He  said  he  was  suffering 
deeply  from  the  separation,  as  he  knew  I 
must  be ;  that  life  without  me  was  but  an 
intolerable  burden,  and  tjhat  it  was  useless 
ever  to  hope  for  the  sanction  of  my  mother 
to  our  union.  Was  1  willing  to  renounce 
wealth  and  position,  to  be  his  wife  at  once  ? 
If  so,  he  had  made  all  necc^ury  arrange- 
ments, as  he  felt  there  was  no  time  to  l<>.-c 
in  putting  his  plans  into  effect.  Tin-  next 
evening,  if  I  could  escape  from  the  house 
unobserved  at  seven  o'clock,  1  should  find  a 
woman  waiting  at  the  corner  of  the  (li>t 
vicolo,  near  our  horse,  who  would  conduct 
me  to  a  carriage  a  little  farther  off.  The 
coachman  had  received  instructions  to  drive 


96 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


as  quickly  as  possible  to  a  little  chapel  in 
an  obscure  street,  where  he  would  await  me 
with  a  priest  to  perform  the  ceremony ;  we 
should  then  leave  immediately  for  Naples. 
He  added  that  I  need  not  wait  to  take 
my  wardrobe  with  me,  but  the  servant  who 
brought  the  letter  would  arrange  to  put  a  few 
necessary  articles  into  the  carriage.  I  did 
not  for  one  moment  hesitate  in  accepting 
his  offer.  During  the  day  I  found  an  oppor- 
tunity of  filling  a  travelling-bag  with  some 
clothing,  jewelry,  and  toilet  articles,  which 
the  girl  carried  from  my  room  in  a  bundle 
of  soiled  linen. 

"  A  few  moments  before  seven,  while  my 
dragon  was  dressing  my  mothei's  hair  for  a 
dinner-party,  1  stole  out  of  my  room,  in 
a  gray  travelling-dress,  with  a  thick  veil 
over  my  face,  through  the  corridor,  by  my 
mother's  door,  —  that  mother  whom  I  never 
saw  again,  and  who  never  forgave  her  only 
child,  —  down  the  long  stone  stairs  out  into 
the  twilight,  where  I  found  the  woman  wait- 
ing for  me.  An  hour  afterward  I  lay  on  my 
husband's  breast,  sobbing  with  joy,  while 
two  swift  horses  bore  us  away  from  Rome 
as  rapidly  as  possible.  Immediately  after 
reaching  Naples  we  were  married  again  by 
a  Protestant  clergyman,  and  Guide's  first 
act  was  to  send  a  copy  of  the  certificate  to 
my  mother,  to  which  we  received  no  reply." 


CHAPTER    XXXV, 

HOW  IT   ENDED. 

attempt  was  made  to  molest  us,  and 
after  spending  a  few  weeks  in 'Naples, 
we  selected  for  our  home  yonder  little  white 
villa  on  the  point  below.  There  I  passed 
the  first  days  of  my  blissful  married  life,  — 
days  that,  when  I  look  back  on  them,  seem 
like  a  dream  of  paradise.  Guido  had  re- 
ceived an  order  to  write  an  opera  for  the 
principal  theatre  of  Bologna,  and  after  the 
first  months  of  delightful  idleness  he  be- 
gan to  work  in  earnest.  All  his  morn- 
ings were  passed  in  writing,  while  I  sat  by 
his  side  fabricating  dainty  little  pieces  of 
embroidery  ;  for  a  blessed  truth  had  dawned 
upon  me,  another  link  would  one  day  unite 
us  more  closely  in  our  passionate  idolatry. 
After  his  day's  labor  was  finished,  our  after- 
noons were  spent  in  blissful  nothingness; 
he  read  a  little,  while  I  lay  in  his  arms,  my 
cheek  resting  on  his  bosom,  listening  to 
some  sweet  Ilalian  poem,  which  seemed 
sweeter  from  his  lips.  But  the  book  was 
often  laid  aside,  while  he  pressed  me  to  his 
heart,  and  looked  into  my  eyes  with  a  love 
that  never  for  one  moment  wearied  or 
changed.  Sometimes,  in  the  warm  days,  he 
would  fall  asleep  with  his  head  on  my  lap, 


while  I  gently  fanned  him,  and  smoothed 
back  the  dark  waves  of  hair  from  his  white 
foreheadc  He  never  opened  his  eyes  upon 
me  but  with  a  smile ;  and  I  never  in  all 
those  days  saw  a  shadow  for  one  moment 
cross  his  face.  How  happy  we  were  all 
through  the  days  of  summer  ! 

"  When  the  sun  began  to  decline  we  lived 
upon  the  sea  ;  floating  with  our  single  rower 
from  island  to  island,  from  purple  peak  to 
more  remote  headland,  gliding  along  under 
the  rocky  walls  over  the  lapis  lazuli  sea, 
listening  to  the  drowsy  murmur  of  the  waves 
as  they  lapped  the  shore,  or  the  far-off  song 
of  the  boatmen.  Sometimes  Guido  sang  to 
me  whi!  my  head  rested  on  his  bosom,  but 
oftener  we  sat  in  silent  rapture  looking  into 
each  other's  faces.  O  my  darling,  my 
darling !  But  the  evening  came  when  we 
floated  for  the  last  time  on  the  tranquil 
sea.  I  remember  it  as  though  it  were  but 
yesterday.  It  was  nearly  sunset,  and  we 
stood  on  the  little  loggia  overlooking  the 
£ ea ;  as  he  folded  a  light  shawl  around  me, 
he  raised  my  face  for  his  usual  caress,  —  a 
kiss  en  my  forehead,  both  eyes,  and  my  lips, 
which  he  called  the  sign  of  the  cross. 
'  Now,'  he  said,  '  darling,  after  to-day  you 
wili  walk  no  more  down  these  long  steps  to 
the  shore,  it  is  too  fatiguing  for  you ;  the 
boatmen  must  carry  you  in  a  chair.'  I  only 
laughed,  assuring  him  I  was  as  strong  and 
well  as  ever,  and  not  tired  at  all.  'You 
are  a  delicate  little  thing,  and  must  be  cared 
for,'  he  replied,  almost  carrying  me  down 
the  steps  and  putting  me  into  the  boat; 
then,  arranging  the  cushion  so  that  I  might 
half  recline,  he  sat  at  my  feet  and  laid  his 
head  in  my  lap. 

"  The  boatman  pushed  off,  and  we  glided 
out  silently  from  the  shore.  After  a  few 
moments'  thought,  Guido  looked  up  and  said, 
'Darling,  do  you  know  this  is  the  20th,  and 
we  have  been  married  nine  monf hs  t '  '  No,' 
I  replied,  '  Angela  mio,'  —  that  was  my  pet 
name  for  him, —  '  I  should  have  said  it  was 
but  one  month,  the  time  has  passed  so 
swiftly.'  '  There  is  only  one  thought  that 
ever  saddens  me,'  he  said,  '  and  that  is  be- 
cause our  life  at  the  longest  wili  be  all  too 
short  for  our  happiness.'  I  laid  my  hand 
on  his  lips,  and  my  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
'  Poor  little  darling  ! '  he  said,  wiping  them 
away,  '  we  will  not  speak  of  that  any  more. 
Do  you  know  to-day  I  have  finished  the 
third  act  of  my  opera  t  another  month,  and 
then  it  will  be  done,  and  after  that  I  shall 
take  a  long  rest ' ;  then  he  pinched  my  fin- 
gers, that  lay  in  his,  and  whispered  something 
that  brought  the  hot  blood  to  my  cheek. 
Another  month,  yes,  another  month.  Again 
we  fell  into  silence.  I  was  thinking  of  tender 
little  baby-fingers  touching  my  neck  and 
bosom,  of  a  little  cooing  voice,  and  soft  dark 
eyes  looking  into  mine  with  the  same  ex- 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


pression  of  my  husband.  Suddenly  I 
glanced  down  at  the  face  in  my  lap,  and  to 
my  surprise  he  was  sleeping,  —  sleeping 
rather  heavily,  I  thought,  and  with  a  hot 
flush  on  his  cheek.  '  Poor  dear,'  I  said 
softly,  while  I  laid  a  shawl  over  him,  '  he  is 
so  tired.'  I  pressed  his  hand  to  my  cheek  ; 
'  how  strange !  it  is  burning  like  one  with 
fever,  but  then  the  day  has  been  so  warm.' 

"  The  sunset  faded  out  of  the  sky,  and  the 
moon  rose  serenely,  and  fell  white  and  soft 
as  the  light  from  the  wing  of  an  angel  on 
the  dear  sleeping  face  upturned  to  mine. 
How  closely  I  watched  him  !  The  white 
forehead,  around  which  clustered  waves  of 
damp  dark  hair ;  the  straight,  delicate  eye- 
brows ;  the  nose  as  perfect  as  chiselled 
marble ;  the  silky  dark  mustache  slightly 
shading  the  mouth,  around  which  lingered 
the  smile  of  love,  —  how  perfect  he  was  in 
his  young  lithe  manhood  !  Endymion,  as 
he  slept  on  Mount  Latmos,  never  was  more 
beautiful,  and  Di^na  never  gazed  at  the 
youth  more  worshipfully  than  I,  as  I  bent 
in  silence  and  rapbure  over  my  cherished 
idol. 

"  I  wondered  why  he  slept  so  heavily,  and 
why  the  fresh  evening  air  did  not  cool  his 
hot  cheek  and  burning  hands ;  but  still  I 
forbore  to  awaken  him,  until  I  could  endure 
my  cramped  position  no  longer.  He  started 
up  confusedly,  putting  his  hand  to  his  head. 
'  My  darling,'  he  said,  with  real  sorrow  in 
his  voice,  '  why  have  you  allowed  me  to 
sleep  so  long  ?  You  have  fatigued  yourself 
holding  my  head,  and  you  have  covered  me 
with  your  shawl.  I  fear  you  have  taken  cold.' 
I  assured  him  I  was  neither  tired  nor  chilly, 
but  expressed  my  anxiety  about  his  hot 
hands  and  flushed  face. 

"  '  I  think  I  am  not  quite  well,'  he  replied, 
'  I  may  have  a  little  fever' ;  and  then  he  gave 
the  boatman  the  order  to  turn  toward  home. 

"  We  lingered  a  moment  on  the  shore  and 
looked  out  on  the  sea.  Sudden  clouds  had 
gathered  and  covered  the  face  of  the  moon. 
'  We  shall  have  a  storm  before  morning,' 
he  said,  as  he  put  his  arm  around  me  and 
led  me  up  the  steps. 

"  All  that  night  I  sat  by  the  bed  of  my 
darling,  and  watched  him  as  he  moaned  and 
tossed  in  the  heavy  stupor  and  half-delirium 
of  the  first  stages  of  fever.  And  all  night 
long  the  tempest  raved  and  roared  around 
our  little  home,  that  had  never  known  a 
shadow  or  a  storm  before.  On  the  black 
wings  of  the  wind  and  the  tempest  the 
darkness  came  that  spread  pall-like  over  all 
my  life.  With  the  early  dawn  I  awoke  the 
servant  and  sent  for  the  nearest  physi- 
cian. The  storm  had  passed  away,  the  sun 
shone,  and  the  birds  sang,  and  so  I  thought 
the  cloud  that  had  gathered  around  me 
through  the  gloom  of  the  night  would  also 
disperse  ;  but  it  never  did. 
13 


"  Day  after  day  the  fever  burned  and  con- 
sumed him.  I  think  in  all  the  time  he  did 
not  fully  recognize  me,  but  his  hand  scarcely 
left  mine,  and  my  bosom  was  the  pillow 
for  his  dear  head.  For  nine  days  I  s;it  al- 
ways by  his  bed,  watching  with  agoni/ed 
anxiety  every  change,  every  movement, 
every  pulse-beat.  But,  my  dear  child,  I 
cannot  linger  over  this  ;  it  tears  my  heart  to 
shreds.  The  ninth  day  he  died  in  my  arms, 
his  precious  head  on  my  bosom ;  for  one 
moment  he  knew  me  and  smiled  in  m\ 

—  a  smile  of  childish  sweetness  and  peace; 
then,  raising  his  weak  hand  upward,  hi 
closed,  and  he  breathed  no  more.     It  was 
night  when  he  died,  and  for  years  after  co 
day  broke  for  me. 

"  They  took  me  insensible  from  his  bed, 
and  all  through  the  hours  of  darkness  I  slept, 
mercifully  overcome  by  a  weariness  and  ex- 
haustion too  profound  to  admit  the  reali/a- 
tion  of  my  bereavement.  In  the  morning  I 
was  again  by  his  side,  looking  at  the  belo\  id 
face  over  which  Death  had  already  scattered 
his  pale  lilies.  The  sea  flowed  on  as  free 
as  ever,  the  birds  sang,  the  morning  breeze 
waved  the  drooping  vines  under  which  we 
had  so  often  stood.  O,  how  could  nature 
rejoice  after  such  a  calamity  ! 

"  For  several  days  I  rested  immobile,  numb, 
unconscious.  Then  the  thought  dawned 
upon  me  that  soon  would  be  given  into 
my  keeping  another  life,  a  life  derived  from 
him,  and  that  I  must  arouse  myself  from  this 
stupor  for  the  sake  of  my  child,  his  child. 
During  these  hours  of  my  bereavement  I 
began  to  long  for  a  woman's  sympathy,  —  a 
woman  of  my  own  nation  and  tongue,  on 
whose  kind  breast  I  might  lean  my  head 
during  the  hours  of  suffering  that  were  com- 
ing upon  me.  I  knew  a  dear  old  Engli.-h 
lady  in  Rome,  a  friend  of  my  father's  family. 
I  thought  if  I  could  but  reach  her  I  should 
be  safe,  during  my  illness,  under  her  care. 
Then  another  anxiety,  which  I  had  never 
known  in  all  my  life,  was  thrust  upon  me, 

—  poverty.     After  my  husband's  burial  the 
little  he  had  saved  by  economy,  and  which 
he  hoped  to  increase  with  the  price  received 
for  his  opera,  was  exhausted,  and  there  re- 
mained little  or  nothing  for  my  future  ex- 
penses.    This  decided  me  to  hasten  at  once 
to  Rome,  where  there  were  many  English 
residents  who  knew   my   father,    and   who 
'would  assist  me  in  my  hour  of  need. 

"  I  reached  Rome  one  night,  a  fortnight 
after  my  husband's  death,  ill,  alone,  and  al- 
most penniless.  I  went  immediately  ro  ;i 
little  apartment  my  physician  had  written 
to  engage,  and  that  night  my  child  was 
born.  My  journey  had  brought  on  a  pre- 
mature illness.  For  three  weeks  after  I  was 
delirious  with  fever,  and  knew  nothing  that 
passed  during  that  time.  When  at  last  I 
crept  back  to  life  and  consciousness^  and 


98 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


asked  for  my  child,  that  I  remembered  to 
have  looked  upon  but  for  a  brief  moment,  I 
was  told  by  the  woman  who  nursed  me  that 
he  had  died  seven  days  after  his  birth,  and 
that  they  had  buried  him  in  the  Campo  San- 
to, where  I  could  see  his  little  grave  when  I 
was  better. 

"  And  that  was  all ;  in  less  than  one  year 
the  life  of  my  life  was  ended.     A  childless  j 
widow  at  eighteen,  I  stood  on  the  brink  of ! 
life,  but  behind  me  were  long,  long  shadows.  | 
My  husband  had  no  family,  only  one  sister 
who  was  a  nun,  and  I  did  not  even  know  by  | 
what  name  she  was  called,  nor  in  what  con- 
vent she  lived.     There  was  nothing  to  hold 
me  to  earth.    If  my  child  had   lived,  my 
little  dark-eyed  darling,  I  could  have  taken 
up  again  the  burden  of  life  and  endured  it 
for  his  sake ;  but  he  had  gone  to  paradise 
with  his  father,  and  forever  they  were  both 
calling  me   to  come  to  them.      O,  how  I 
longed  for  heaven,  there  was  so  much  of  me 
there  !     It  was  early  in  the  season,  Rome 
was  empty,  and  my  old  English  friend  was 
still  absent.     1  had  sold  my  last  article  of 
jewelry  to  pay  the  expenses  of  my  illness 
and  my  baby's  burial ;  the  proceeds  of  that 
were  nearly  gone,  and  in  a  few  days  I  must 
stand  face  to  face  with  actual  want.     Then 
the  thought  of  writing  to  my  father  occurred 
to  me.     J  told  him  of  my  sorrow,  my  loneli- 
ness, my  poverty,  and  entreated  him  to  send 
me  enough  money  to  enter  a  convent,  that 
being  my  only  desire.      Some  time  passed 
away,  and  I  was  almost  in  despair  of  receiv- 
ing a  reply,  when  one  evening  as  I  sat  in  my 
miserable  little  room  alone,  breaming,  as  I 
always  did,  of  my  lost  happiness,  some  one 
knocked  at  my  door.    A  moment  after  I  was  [ 
folded  in  my  father's  arms,   and   we  were  i 
weeping  together.     Then,  for  the  first  time  j 
in  my  life,  I  felt  I  had  a  father. 

"  Immediately  after  receiving  my  letter, 
which  he  said  nearly  broke  his  heart,  he  left 
England  to  bring  me  home.  After  visiting 
my  child's  grave,  and  placing  a  little  marble 
cross  over  it,  I  left  the  spot  indifferent  to 
everything;  my  heart  was  buried  in  the 
grave  of  my  Guido,  and  all  the  world  was 
the  same  to  me. 

"  When  we  reached  Radcliffe  Castle  my 
mother  sternly  refused  to  see  me,  or  to  re'- 
ceive  me  into  the  same  house  with  herself. 
Lord  Iladcliffe  and  your  father  were  college 
friend?,  and  through  the  interest  of  my 
mother  he  had  just  been  appointed  to  the 
living  of  Helmsford.  There  my  father  took 
me  after  our  arrival  in  England. 

"  My  sad  history  touched  the  heart  of  your 
angelic  mother,  to  whom  I  at  once  clunw 
with  a  sisterly  affection.  It  was  that  dear 
and  gentle  friend  who  helped  me  to  reunite 
again  the  broken  threads  of  my  life,  and 
taught  me  new  duties  and  new  interests. 
You  can  now  understand  my  friendship  for 


your  father  and  my  affection  for  you.  For 
four  years  I  lived  at  Helmsford  Rectory, 
when  the  sudden  death  of  my  mother,  who 
never  forgave  me,  enabled  me  to  return  to 
my  childhood's  home.  My  father,  who  was 
always  after  my  trouble  most  kind  and  gen' 
tie  to  me,  installed  me  mistress  of  Radclifle 
Castle,  where  I  lived  quietly  and  tranquilly 
until  Lord  Dinsmore  asked  my  hand  in 
marriage.  He  was  a  good,  noble  man, 
many  years  older  than  myself.  He  knew 
the  history  of  my  love,  and  had  wept  with 
me  over  its  gad  ending ;  he  also  knew  I 
could  not  love  him  as  I  had  loved  my 
Guido,  but  he  was  content  with  my  friend- 
ship and  wifely  duty.  We  were  quietly 
happy  together ;  and  when  Florence  was 
born  something  of  the  olden  joy  awoke  in 
my  heart.  For  often  when  I  closed  my  eyes 
I  would  fancy  it  was  the  little  dark-eyed 
darling  that  had  nestled  in  my  bosom  for  a 
moment,  the  child  of  my  Guido." 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

I   HAVE   LOVED   YOU   FROM    THE    FIRST. 

WHEN  Lady  Dinsmore  had  finished, 
Constance,  who  was  quietly  weeping, 
gently  pressed  the  hand  that  lay  in  hers, 
and  said  in  a  voice  of  the  deepest  sympathy, 
"I  knew  you  had  suffered;  one  who  has 
pined  under  a  malady  knows  well  the  si^ns 
of  the  same  disease  in  another.  I  wish  I 
could  do  something  to  soothe  and  alleviate 
your  sorrow ;  however,  sometimes  the  re- 
cital of  our  suffering  lightens  a  little  its 
weight." 

"  Yes,  I  have  often  wished  to  speak  to  you 
of  those  days,  since  I  have  been  here  in  this 
spot,  looking  at  the  same  scenes  and  hear- 
ing every  hour  the  name  that  death  has 
made  sacred  to  rne.  I  am  glad  I  have  told 
you.  I  have  rolled  away  the  stone  and  let 
the  stagnant  waters  flow  free  ;  who  knows 
but  in  their  course  they  will  refresh  and  cool 
the  burning  •  soil  of  my  heart  1  Sometimes, 
as  I  stand  here  and  look  en  the  same  bay 
where  our  little  boat  floated  more  than 
twenty-five  years  ago,  on  the  same  golden 
sunlights,  the  same  silver  moonlights  flood- 
ing the  waves,  the  same  groves  of  olive 
and  orange,  and  the  same  yellow  vineyards,  I 
think  nothing  but  myse.!f  has  changed;  for 
the  girls,  as  they  gather  their  figs,  chant  the 
old,  monotonous  song,  am!  the  fisherman 
plies  his  oar  and  sings  afar  off. 

'  And  the  stately  ships  go  on  to  their  haven  under  the  hill, 
But  0  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand,  and  the  souuil 
of  a  voice  that  is  still  <.  ' 

Through  all  these  years  I  have  thought  of 
him,  never,  never  forgetting  him.  And  he 
knows  how  I  have  tried  to  do  my  duty,  and 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


90 


be  patient  until  I  could  go  to  him.  If  there 
is  anything  in  my  nature  strong  and  noble, 
tender  and  charitable,  it  is  the  memory  of 
him  that  has  taught  me  to  be  so.  For  years 
I  looked  into  every  face  with  a  profound  pity, 
thinking  that  under  the  disguise  each  one 
wore  must  be  hidden  an  aching  heart,  that 
every  one  bore  about  with  him  the  burden 
of  a  recent  sorrow.  But  at  last  I  learned  to 
discriminate  between  real  and  affected  suf- 
fering; I  learned  to  be  gentle  with  the 
nature  disappointment  had  imbittered,  or 
inconstancy  and  deception  hardened,  always 
remembering  that  few  have  had  the  example 
of  such  a  perfect  character,  and  the  soften- 
ing influence  of  such  a  love,  made  holy  by 
death  and  sorrow." 

She  arose  as  she  spoke,  and,  raising  her 
eyes  upward,  she  said,  "  To-night  the  stars 
are  shining  in  the  heavens  that  must  be  his 
blessed  home,  and  I  am  waiting  here  on 
earth,  contented  to  see  each  sun  set  and 
each  moon  rise,  because  I  know  that  each 
brings  me  one  day  nearer  to  him.  Now,  my 
dear  child,  forgive  me  if  I  have  saddened 
you ;  I  will  go  to  my  room ;  I  need  to  be 
alone.  I  hope  they  will  not  remain  too  late 
on  the  bay,  for  the  evening  air  is  chilly." 

They  walked  up  the  garden  path  between 
the  rows  of  shining  ilex,  the  cricket  chirped 
in  the  fragrant  acacia,  the  perfume  of  the 
orange-blossom  fell  faint  on  the  air,  and 
the  moon  flooded  the  hills  with  sweet,  pen- 
sive light.  All  was  silence  around  them,  as 
Constance  kissed  Lady  Dinsmore,  and  bade 
her  good  night. 

"I  hope  she  will  live  over  her  past  joy  in 
her  dreams,"  she  thought,  as  she  leaned 
above  the  balcony,  and  looked  out  on  the 
bay  toward  the  sapphire  isles,  where  the 
little  boat  floated,  a  speck  on  the  silvery 
sea. 

A  hurried  step  on  the  walk  below  made 
her  start  and  turn,  and  in  a  moment  Guidb 
was  at  her  side.     Whether  it  was  the  sur-  ! 
prise  and  joy  of  seeing  him  at  that  moment  ; 
or  because  the  history  of  Lady  Dinsmore's  , 
love  had  softened  her  heart  she  never  knew, 
but  before  she  was  aware  of  it  sKe  was  in  his 
arms,  pressed  close  to  his  heart,  and  sobbing 
with  her  cheek  resting  against  his. 

"  Be  calm,  my  dnrlinir,"  he  said,  softly 
smoothing  her  hair,  —  "  be  calm,  and  listen 
to  me,  for  T  have  much  to  say." 

She  raised  her  happy  eyes  to  his,  and 
sighed,  "  O  Guido,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you ! 
I  feared  all  sorts  of  danger  for  you." 

He  took  her  face  between  both  his  hands, 
and,  turning  her  head  so  that  the  moonlight 
fell  full  upon  brow  and  lips,  he  said,  "  Con- 
stance, do  you  love  me  ?  " 

The  white  lids  drooped  for  a  moment  as 
she  replied,  "  Yes,  Guido,  I  love  you;  have 
you  not  known  it  from  the  first  ?  I  have 
loved  you  from  the  first." 


"  Thank  God,"  he  said,  pressing  her  hands 
to  his  lips,  "  thank  God  that  you  l,fir<-  love-l 
me ;  but  is  your  love  strong  enough  to  bear 
the  test  to  which  I  shall  put  it ''.  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  firmly,  "  it  is  strong 
enough  to  bear  any  test.  Nothing  can 
change  it  now." 

II-  smiled  fondly,  still  his  face  was  very 
sad  and  serious.  "  Let  me  begin  from  the 
first  day  I  saw  you.  I  loved  you  then,  as  I 
love  you  now,  with  the  first,  the  only  love 
of  my  life,  and  I  knew  I  should  always  love 
you.  A  great  barrier  separated  us,  and 
prevented  my  telling  you  of  my  love.  I 
firmly  resolved  to  hide  my  secret  in  my 
heart  and  never  confess  it,  when  t! 
pression  of  your  face  as  you  bent  over  me 
that  day  in  the  grotto  revealed  to  me  the 
strength  of  your  affection.  Then  I  de- 
termined to  speak.  I  deterred  it  until  my 
return,  as  I  wished  to  make  one  more  effort 
in  Rome  to  discover  a  secret,  and  remove 
if  possible  one  obstruction  to  our  union. 
But  I  have  failed,  as  I  always  have,  rmd 
now,  my  darling,  I  cannot  keep  silent,  my 
passion  is  too  strong  for  me ;  but  tha  barrier 
still  exists,  —  a  barrier  so  high  I  fear  your 
love  cannot  level  it." 

He  bowed  his  head,  a  hot  flush  burned 
on  his  cheek,  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
"  It  is  not  alone  the  barrier  of  povci  ty,  it  is 
the  barrier  of  shame.  Constance,  I  am 
a  foundling  of  Santo  Spirito,  and  I  fear  a 
child  of  sin.  My  birth,  my  parentage,  is  a 
mystery  which  Go:l  alone  can  reveal.  I 
had  hoped  it  might  have  been  poverty  alone 
that  abandoned  me,  but  I  have  reason  to 
know  it  was  not  poverty;  what  could  it  have 
been  but  the  desire  to  conceal  disgrace  ? 
I  have  told  you  all.  I  have  told  you  the 
worst.  Can  you  love  one  so  unworthy  ?  " 

"  Guido,"  she  replied,  looking  in  his  face 
with  eyes  that  revealed  all  her  lo\ 
knew  it,  I  knew  it  long  ago."  Then  she 
told  him  of  the  conversation  she  had  over- 
lie  :inl  in  the  Sala  di  Dante,  and  her  decision 
at  that  time;  "but  now."  she  said.  "  all  is 
changed,  I  find  my  love  stronger  than  my 
pride.  Believe  me,  you  would  be  no  dearer 
to  me  if  you  were  the  son  of  a  king.  I  love 
you  for  yourself,  yourself  alone.  I  am  the 
mistress  of  my  own  acts,  my  own  future. 
Why  should  I  sacrifice  my  happiness  for 
the  base  and  sordid  opinion  of  the  world  ? 
Is  a  diamond  the  less  a  diamond  because  it 
is  imbosomed  in  meaner  soil  ?  Is  the  ivy 
een  because  it  grows  from  ruin  and 
rubbish?  No,  Guido,  no;  you  are  Nature's 
child,  but  God  has  dowered  you  with  a 
greater  inheritance  than  name  or  wealth, 
lie  has  given  you  genius,  and  the  true 
nobiyty  of  nature ;  you  are  his  child,  and  I 
am  proud  of  you." 

lie  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  calling  her  by 
every  endearing  name,  mingled  with  fervent 


100 


WOVEN   OF  MANY .  THREADS. 


thanksgiving.  It  was  a  moment  of  rapture 
for  both.  At  last  they  bad  found  what  they 
had  so  nearly  missed.  And  each,  looking 
in  the  face  of  the  other,  wondered  how 
they  had  kept  silent  so  long,  when  their 
hearts  had  been  united  from  the  first  hour 
of  their  meeting. 

As  they  paced  slowly  back  and  forth 
under  the  light  of  moon  and  stars,  with 
clasped  hands  and  eyes  brimming  with  love, 
the  night  seemed  filled  with  a  new  peace 
and  beauty.  All  was  serene  around,  above, 
beneath,  and  from  the  happy  heart  of  each 
went  up  through  the  still  air  toward  the 
angel  sentinels  on  the  battlements  of  para- 
dise the  watchword  of  peace. 

Lady  Dinsmore  lay  on  her  sofa  in  a  white 
dressing-gown ;  the  door  was  open  on  the 
loggia,  and  the  only  light  in  the  room  was 
the  moonlight.  She  heard  the  clear  voice 
of  Florence,  as  she  came  up  the  steps, 
mingled  with  the  deeper  tones  of  Fitzhaven. 
"  Lately  they  are  always  together,"  she 
thought.  "  It  is  strange,  but  1  did  hope  she 
would  have  loved  Guido.  I  should  have 
been  very  happy  to  have  seen  her  bis 
wife.  However,  it  is  evidently  not  to  be. 
Fitzhaven  is  in  every  way,  as  far  as  the 
world  sees,  the  more  suitable  husband  for 
her.  Yet  cannot  tell  why,  but  I  would 
rather  she  had  loved  Guido." 

At  that  moment  a  slight,  white-robed 
figure  slipped  into  the  room,  dropping  her 
hat  and  shawl  as  she  came.  Her  mother 
held  out  her  arms,  and  the  girl  flew  to  her, 
laughing  and  almost  sobbing  in  the  same 
breath. 

"  Dear,  dear  mamma,  have  I  done  wrong  ? 
but  I  am  so  happy.  Fitzhaven  has  told  me 
he  loves  me,  and  has  asked  me  to  be  his 
wife,  and,  mamma  dear,  I  have  promised ; 
have  I  done  wrong  to  promise  without  con- 
sulting you ;  but  it  was  so  unexpected,  and 
I  like  him  so  much,  I  could  not  wait  until 
I  had  asked  you  if  it  was  best ;  have  I  done 
wrong,  mamma  ?  " 

Lady  Dinsmore  looked  earnestly  into  her 
daughter's  face.  "  Are  you  sure,  my  darling, 
you  love  Fitzhaven  ?  If  you  are  sure  you 
love  him,  it  is  right,  and  will  meet  with  my 
full  approval." 

"  O  mamma,  you  must  know  I  love  him ; 
I  thought  you  had  known  it  all  summer,  al- 
though I  have  tried  so  hard  to  hide  it  that  I 
have  often  made  the  poor  dear  fellow  un- 
happy. Yes,  I  am  sure  I  love  him  better 
than  any  other  person  on  earth  except  you." 
Dear  little  hypocrite,  she  knew  she  loved  him 
better  than  her  mother  i  "  He  will  speak  to 
you,  mamma,  in  the  morning,  and  you  must 
not  scold  him  because  he  has  told  me  first ; 
he  did  not  intend  it,  but  —  but  —  . 

"  never  mind,  darling,"  and  Lady  Dins- 
more  smiled  "  I  understand  it  all",  and  I 
will  speak  to  FitzLaven  in  the  morning  with- 


out scolding  him.  I  shall  be  very  glad  to 
see  you  happy,  but  you  must  not'  expect  to 
marry  yet,  you  are  both  too  young.  Fitz- 
haven, according  to  the  laws  of  Scotland,  is 
not  of  age  until  he  is  twenty-five." 

"  No,  mamma,  I  do  not  wish  to  marry 
yet,"  she  replied,  coloring  ;  "  only  I  shall  be 
happier  lo  know  it  will  be  gcme  day." 

"It  shall  be  Borne  day,  eo  be  happy,  my 
dear;  but,"  she  added,  a  little  musingly,  "I 
had  thought  you  loved  Guido." 

"  Loved  Guido  ?  so  I  did,  and  so  I  do  now 
dearly,  but  not  as  I  love  Filzhaven.  I  love 
Guido  as  I  would  a  brother,  if  I  had  one  ;  but 
did  you  not  know  he  was  back,  mamma?  he  is 
walking  on  the  west  loggia  with  Ccnstance." 

*'  Is  he  ?  "  exclaimed  Lady  Dinsmore,  joy- 
fully, "  I  did  not  expect  him  before  to-mor- 
row. He  did  not  disturb  me  because  he 
thought  I  had  retired  for  the  night.  But 
send  him  to  me,  dear,  I  wish  to  speak  with 
him." 

"  Why  are  you  back  to-night,  Guido  ?  " 
inquired  Lady  Dinsmore,  as  the  young  man 
kissed  her  hand  affectionately. 

"  Because,"  he  replied,  "  1  could  not  stay 
away  another  day,  ycu  have  made  me  too 
happy  here.  I  found  my  Reman  home  dull 
and  gloomy ;  so  I  left  directly  after  my  ser- 
vice was  finished,  and  hastened  over  the 
road  as  fast  as  possible,  scarcely  expecting 
the  joyful  reception  that  awaited  me  ;  but  is 
it  too  late,  and  are  you  too  tired  to  listen  to 
me?" 

"  No,  my  dear  boy,"  replied  Lady  Dins- 
more,  "  you  know  my  great  interest  in  any 
matter  that  concerns  you,  and  how  glad  I 
am  to  have  your  confidence." 

Then  Guido.  holding  his  friend's  hand  in 
his,  told  her  all  the  history  of  his  life,  the 
shame  connected  with  his  birth,  the  trials  and 
sufferings  of  his  childhood,  his  ambition  and 
poverty,  his  love  for  Constance  and  his  joy  at 
finding  it  returned.  "  But,"  he  said,  "  even 
now  that  I  know  she  loves  me,  1  hesitate  to 
ask  her  to  become  my  wife.  I  feel  it  is  tco 
great  a  sacrifice  to  demand  of  her.  I  am 
poor,  and  if  I  marry  I  must  resign  my  situa- 
tion in  the  service  of  the  Pope,  and  the  in- 
come I  can  command  as  a  teacher  will  be  at 
the  most  very  little.  What  sort  of  a  destiny 
is  that  to  ask  a  woman  to  share,  —  one  born 
and  reared  in  luxury  ?  "  He  spoke  bitterly, 
and  his  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  Lady  Dinsmore,  with 
real  affection,  *  you  exaggerate  the  evils  of 
your  position.  You  must  leave  Italy  and  go 
to  England.  There  you  will  have  a  wider 
sphere  for  your  talents.  There  you  can  gain 
wealth  and"  a  position.  Beside,  Constance  • 
is  not  poor.  1  know  the  noble  heart  of  the 
girl  so  well  that  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  she 
will  never  think  a  marriage  with  you  a  sac- 
rifice. Your  love  will  make  her  happy." 

She  arose  from  her  reclining  position,  and, 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


101 


resting  oil  her  elbow,  looked  earnestly  into 
the  face  of  the  young  man,  on  which  was 
imprinted  the  diverse  expression  of  anxiety 
and  joy. 

"(Juido,  my  dear  boy,"  she  said,  "it  is 
not  necessary  for  me  to  tell  you  how  deep 
my  interest  is  in  you,  nor  how  strong  is  iny 
affection  for  you.  You  must  have  felt  both. 
Your  name,  your  face,  your  voice,  all  remind 
me  of  one  I  loved  so  well  that  since  I  lost 
him  the  greater  part  of  my  life  has  been 
buried  in  his  grave.  A  son  was  born  of  that 
union.  If  he  had  lived  he  would  have  borne 
your  name,  and  would  have  been  now  about 
your  age.  God  took  the  little  angel  to 
heaven  with  his  blessed  father.  I  cannot 
tell  why.  but  I  feel  that  he  has  sent  you 
in  the  place  of  the  babe  I  lost,  to  comfort 
my  old  age.  I  am  rich,  and  Florence  has 
more  money  than  she  will  ever  need.  Be  to 
me  a  son.  Let  me  think  you  the  child  who 
nestled  but  an  hour  in  my  bosom.  Your  life 
has  been  lonely  and  sad,  you  have  suffered 
much.  Forget  it,  and  be  happy.  Your  fu- 
ture is  assured  to  you.  I  shall  immediately 
settle  upon  you  an  income  sufficient  for  every 
want,  and  after  my  death  you  will  share  my 
property  equally  with  Florence." 

"  Do  not  speak  of  that,"  he  said,  with  emo- 
tion ;  "  I  am  young,  I  can  work,  and  am  rich 
in  the  love  and  esteem  of  two  adorable  wo- 
men. I  will  be  your  son  in  affection ;  in- 
deed, I  am  now.  I  have  often  fancied  what 
a  mother  should  be,  and  I  would  choose  you 
from  all  the  world  as  the  reality  of  my  pre- 
cious ideal." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  white  forehead, 
and,  smoothing  her  silvery  hair,  he  said  fond- 
ly, "  Good  night,  dearest  mother  1  may  you 
have  happy  dreams  !  " 

And  she  did,  for  all  night  long  in  her 
sleep,  floated  with  every  variation  of  sound, 
like  strains  of  far-off  music,  "  Mother,  dear 
mother !  " 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

THE   BATTLE   OF   CASTEL    FIDARDO. 

IT  is  necessary  here,  in  order  to  better 
understand  this  history,  to  give  a  slight 
sketch  of  the  political  state  of  the  country 
at  that  period,  September  1,  1860. 

Garibaldi,  believing  the  first  need  of  Italy 
was  union,  under  the  protection  of  Victor 
Emanuel,  landed  in  Sicily,  and  passed 
through  the  entire  south,  greeted  every- 
where with  enthusiasm  by  the  people,  who 
rose  in  a  mass  against  the  army  of  Francis 
II.,  and  even,  in  many  cases,  the  soldiers  of 
the  Bourbon  deserted,  and  joined  themselves 
to  the  great  general. 

After  centuries  of  discord,  division,  and 
despotism,  the  Italians  had  at  last  awakened 


to  the  knowledge  that  the  first  step  to  liberty 
is  union.  Lombardy  had  just  been  wrenched 
from  the  power  of  the  Austrians,  and 
already  burning  hearts  were  longing  and 
ready  to  strike  a  blow  for  the  freedom  of 
Venice,  to  rescue  from  the  chains  of  the, 
invader  their  proud  queen  of  the  Adriatic. 

One  by  one,  state  after  state  had  arisen, 
and  declared  with  a  unanimous  voice  in 
favor  of  the  federation  of  all  the  provinces 
under  the  King  of  Sardinia,  to  whom  they 
would  give  the  title  of  King  of  Italy.  All 
were  working  in  the  north  with  magnificent 
ardor  for  the  reconstruction  of  the  nation. 

Garibaldi  entered  Calabria  at  the  head 
of  fifteen  thousand  men.  There  he  was  re- 
ceived with  frantic  ovations  by  the  popula- 
tion. The  morning  of  the  3d  of  September 
it  was  known  in  Naples  that  ten  thousand 
of  the  Bourbon  soldiers  had  deserted  and 
joined  his  army.  General  Basco  arrived  at 
the  capital,  and,  after  a  long  conference  with 
the  King,  returned  to  Salerno,  where  he  was 
stationed  with  six  thousand  troops,  without 
any  precise  instructions ;  this  incertitude 
caused  confusion  and  disagreements.  The 
ministry  resigned  for  the  third  time,  and 
every  effort  to  form  another  was  useless. 

The  day  of  the  5th  it  was  known  that 
Garibaldi  was  at  Eboli,  and  that  the  Neapol- 
itan troops  had  evacuated  Salerno  without 
a  single  engagement.  The  rumor  circulated 
that  the  King  had  called  General  Desauget, 
successor  to  the  Prince  of  Ischitella  in  the 
command  of  the  National  Guards,  to  announce 
to  him  his  decision  to  abandon  the  capital. 
This  news  was  received  at  the  exchange  by 
a  rising  of  three  points.  In  the  evening  it 
was  known  that  Gaeta  was  the  a 
selected  by  the  King,  where  he  hoped  to  t  a';e 
with  him  forty  thousand  soldiers.  On  the 
morning  of  the  6th  contradictory  rumors 
spread.  It  was  said  that  he  had  decided  to 
remain,  and  endeavor  to  defend  himself  by 
trying  his  fortune  in  a  decisive  battle  on 
the  plains  of  Nocera.  But  very  soon  this 
report  was  known  to  be  untrue,  for  at  six 
o'clock  in  the  evening  the  King  departed 
for  Gaeta,  with  all  the  foreign  ambassadors, 
and  no  demonstration  was  made. 

He  passed  the  night  on  board  the  royal 
yacht  in  the  naval  port.  In  the  morning  he. 
tried  to  persuade  the  fleet  to  accompany 
him,  but  they  refused,  and  the  royal  yacht 
left  alone. 

Six  hours  only  passed  between  the  de- 
parture of  the  King  and  the  arrival  of  <  laii 
baldi.  The  Dictator  entered  Naples  half 
an  hour  after  noon  by  the  railroad,  without 
any  escort,  —  five  or  six  officers  alone  ac- 
companying him.  lie  descended  irom  his 
carnage  at  the  Piazza  Castello  Reale,  and 
took  Iod:_rin2;s  in  the  apartments  de-i-ned 
for  royal  guests.  Called  by  the  population, 
who  were  frantic  to  see  him,  he  api- 


102 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


on  the  balcony  and  said  a  few  words,  in 
vvhk'lt  ho  announced  to  them  that  the  term 
of  their  slavery  was  finished. 

The  tricolored  flag  was  unfurled  from  all 
the  forts  of  the  city  amid  the  firing  of 
cannon.  The  balconies  were  draped  with 
tricolored  banners  and  filled  with  gay  faces. 
The  streets  were  crowded  with  the  citizens, 
shouting  "  Viva  Garibaldi!"  and  in  the 
evening  ,  the  city  was  illuminated,  and  dem- 
onstrations of  rejoicing  were  everywhere 
visible.  The  night  passed  with  cries  and 
songs  of  joy,  but  in  the  morning  all  was 
tranquil ;  the  laborers  returned  to  their  labor, 
and  the  merchant  to  his  merchandise,  while 
Garibaldi  appointed  his  new  ministry. 

Pie  assumed  the  title  of  Dictator  of  the 
two  Sicilies,  under  the  King  Victor  Eman- 
uel,  annexing  the  Neapolitan  army  and 
navy  to  the  Piedmontese.  Libario  Romano, 
Minister  of  the  Interior,  signed  the  decree 
of  the  Dictator. 

Toward  the  evening  of  the  9th  he  went, 
in  company  with  two  or  three  friends,  to 
the  Castel  St.  Elmo,  -where  some  few  of  the 
officers,  more  faithful  to  the  cause  of  Francis 
II.,  had  arrested  several  soldiers  suspected 
of  a  desire  to  give  the  castello  to  the  nation. 
At  the  sight  of  Garibaldi  the  soldiers  im- 
mediately abandoned  the  fort,  refusing  to 
protect  it  any  longer;  he  then  called  the 
National  Guards,  who  occupied  it  at  once. 

That  same  day  he  issued  the  following 
proclamation :  — 

TO  THE  NEAPOLITAN  ARMY! 

If  you  do  not  disdain  Garibaldi  for  a 
companion-in-arms,  he  desires  nothing  bet- 
ter than  to  fight  at  your  side  against  the 
enemy  of  your  country.  A  truce  then  te 
discords,  the  everlasting  evils  of  our  nation. 
Let  Italy,  treading  on  the  fragments  of  her 
chains,  point  out  to  us  in  the  north  the  path 
of  honor  toward  the  last  refuge  of  her  tyrants. 

I  can  promise  you  nothing  but  fighting. 
GARIBALDI. 

NAPLES,  September  9, 1860. 

All  these  events  had  transpired  with  such 
rapidity  and  so  silently  that  the  residents 
at  Sans  Souci  knew  nothing  of  the  occupation 
of  Naples  by  Garibaldi  until  they  were  in- 
formed by  one  of  the  servants?,  who  had  been 
told  by  the  sailors  of  the  market-boat  that 
stopped  at  the  little  marina  twice  a  week. 

Meanwhile,  another  scene  of  the  great 
drama  was  about  developing  itself  in  the 
Pontifical  states.  From  various  cities  depu- 
tations came  to  Victor  Emanuel,  soliciting 
protection  against  the  foreign  soldiers  of 
the  Pope,  for  an  interior  agitation  was  man- 
ifested just  in  those  cities  where  General 
Lamoriciere  had  placed  his  troops,  in  order 
to  prevent  a  revolution. 

Already  a  greater  part  of  Umbria  and 
the  Marches  was  in  possession  of  the  Pied- 


inontese  army.  Foligno,  Spoletto,  Orvieto, 
and  Perugia  had  just  been  taken  with  little 
resistance.  The  same  disposition  was  shown 
in  the  Pontifical  states  as  in  the  other  parts 
of  Italy. 

Ancona,  then  the  last  seaport  of  any  im- 
portance belonging  to  the  Papal  government, 
was  the  only  stronghold  on  the  Adriatic  in 
which  the  Pontifical  troops,  who  were  al- 
most surrounded  by  the  Italians,  could  take 
refuge. 

The  Musone,  a  small  river  which  enters 
the  sea  a  mile  and  a-  half  below  Loreto, 
flows  through  a  valley  about  five  hundred 
yards  wide,  dotted  with  a  few  trees  and  in- 
tersected with  ditches  for  irrigation.  A  mile 
from  Loreto,  this  stream  receives  from  the 
left  the  Aspio,  a  river  of  more  importance. 
These  two  currents  and  a  chain  of  hills,  on 
which  is  situated  Castel  Fidardo,  form  an 
angular  plain,  on  which  was  fought  the 
short,  bloody,  and  decisive  battle  that  wrest- 
ed Ancona  and  the  neighboring  cities  from 
the  power  of  the  Pope. 

Going  from  Ancona,  one  follows  the  Mu- 
sone, crossed  by  a  light  wooden  bridge,  a 
mile  from  the  city.  Nearly  opposite,  en  the 
Aspio,  is  another,  better  constructed,  of 
stone.  A  mile  farther,  the  Valetto  crosses 
the  Musone, —  a  very  deep  and  rapid  river,  it 
presents  a  formidable  obstacle  for  the  pas- 
sage of  infantry,  and  utterly  impracticable 
for  cavalry  and  guns.  At  this  point  a  Pied- 
montese regiment  of  infantry',  after  having 
cut  away  the  bridge,  stationed  two  pieces  of 
cannon,  which  on  the  evening  of  the  15th 
had  driven  back  the  scout  of  General  Lamo- 
riciere, who,  finding  himself  cut  off  from 
crossing  the  river,  awaited  the  attack  at 
Loreto  with  four  or  five  thousand  men,  while 
Cialdini,  General  of  the  Italian  army,  had 
posted  two  divisions  of  six  thousand  men 
each,  —  one  at  Ancona,  the  other  at  Castel 
Fidardo. 

On  the  morning  of  the  18th,  Lamoriciere, 
believing  he  could  force  his  way  to  Ancona, 
where  he  hoped  to  receive  some  reinforce- 
ments and  provisions  by  sea,  attacked  the 
extreme  position  of  the  troops  of  Cialdiui 
stationed  at  Castel  Fidardo,  who,  after  a 
short  but  bloody  engagement,  drove  the 
Pontifical  army  into  the  plains  below. 
There,  reinforced  by  the  first  line  of  General 
Pimodan,  who  arrived  shortly  after  the 
struggle  commenced,  they  did  not  do  spa;  r 
of  driving  the  Italians  back,  or,  at  the  worst, 
of  being  able  to  retreat  to  Ancona  after  they 
found  it  impossible  to  fall  back  on  Loreto. 

At  this  crisis  the  artillery,  which  had  not 
been  able  to  leave  the  road  on  account  of 
the  high  embankments,  were  taken  with  a 
panic  of  fear,  some  of  the  leaders  cutting 
the  harnesses  of  the  horses  and  abandoning 
their  guns.  This  confusion  threw  Lamori- 
ciere into  the  greatest  perplexity.  However, 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


103 


he  endeavored  to  reunite  his  troops,  while 
General  Pimodan  covered  them  from  the  fire 
of  the  enemy.  For  some  tune  they  fought 
bravely,  remaining  under  a  merciless  fire  of 
the  Piedmontcse,  until  General  Pimodan, 
struck  by  two  balls,  tell,  mortally  wounded, 
by  the  side  of  Lamoriciere,  who,  shaking 
hands  with  him  for  the  last  time,  and  ex- 
changing a  few  sad  words,  saw  him  carried 
to  the  rear.  Now  the  fate  of  the  day  rested 
on  a  battalion  of  bersaylieri,  a  few  companies 
of  Zouaves  and  Swiss,  who  resolutely  forced 
their  way  to  the  Musone,  where  they  found 
themselves  face  to  face  with  the  guns  of  the 
Piedmontese.  Then  the  greater  part  threw 
away  their  arms  and  baggage,  and  fled  in 
the  wildest  confusion,  taking  refuge  among 
the  tall  canes  that  grew  ou  the  bank  of  the 
river,  and  some  even  plunging  into  the  rapid 
stream,  that  soon  carried  them,  stiff  and 
stark,  out  to  the  sea.  The  few  that  remained, 
seeing  the  day  was  lost,  fought  with  a  des- 
perate fury,  retreating  toward  the  sea,,  where 
they  were  met  by  the  troops  of  Cialdini,  sta- 
tioned at  Ancona. 

The  foreign  soldiers  of  the  Pope,  finding 
themselves  surrounded  and  cut  off  from  re- 
treat on  every  side,  before  surrendering, 
fought  with  a  frenzy  of  madness,  face  to  face 
with  the  Italians.  And  it  is  even  said  that 
the  wounded  and  dying  hirelings  struck  their 
daggers  into  the  hearts  of  the  soldiers  who 
came  to  their  assistance.  Lamoriciere  es- 
caped from  the  enemy  by  taking  refuge  in 
the  convent  of  Loreto,  where  he  was  con- 
cealed until  an  opportunity  offered  for  him 
to  fly  to  Rome. 

The  result  of  this  battle  was  the  fall  of 
Ancona ;  six  hundred  Pontifical  prisoners, 
among  whom  were  thirty  officers,  many  pieces 
of  artillery,  all  the  guns  and  baggage  of  those 
•  who  fled,  and  the  wounded,  dead,  and  dying, 
were  left  in  the  hands  of  the  Italians. 

So  ended  the  last  struggle  of  Umbria  and 
the  Marches.  Curtailed  and  diminished 
almost  to  the  very  walls  of  Rome,  the  Papal 
government,  protected  by  its  hirelings,  still 
smiled  in  scornful  security  from  this  strong- 
hold of  the  world.  But  patience,  faith  in 
God  and  in  the  future ;  eventually  her 
chains  will  fall  off,  and  a  new  Rome  will 
arise  from  the  ashes  of  the  old,  more  noble, 
more  glorious  than  ever  in  her  palmiest 
days,  and  future  generations  shall  yet  point 
to  her  as  the  polar  star  of  the  world. 


clashing  bayonets,  in  the  very  thickest  of 
the  carnage,  a  tall  slight  man  in  gray  was 
seen  carrying  water  and  wine  to  the  ex- 
hausted, dying  soldiers;  treating  alike  Pon- 
tifical and  Italian,  bearing  with  almost  su- 
perhuman strength  the  wounded  beyond 
the  line  of  fire  and  the  tramp  of  horses; 
taking  no  part  whatever  in  the  action, 
j  neither  encouraging  by  word  or  deed  the 
soldiers  on  either  side ;  looking  alike  with 
indifference  on  the  conquered  retreating  or 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

AT   LAST.  —  FACE   TO   FACE. 

ALL  day  during  the  noise  and  roar  of  the 
battle,  in  the  fury  of  the  engagement, 
amid  the  rain  of  shot  and  shell,  under  the 


the  triumphant  advancing;  never  heeding 
the  cries  of  despair  or  the  shouts  of  victory  ; 
only  sometimes,  when  he  came  fai-e  to  face 
with  a  man  on  whose  compressed  lips  was 
stamped  the  hellish  strength  of  his  hate  a.-* 
he  was  about  to  plunge  his  dagger  into  the 
heart  of  a  fair-haired  German,  with  a  lear- 
i  ful  blow  he  would  turn  the  weapon  aside, 
and  disarm  the  murderer  with  a  look. 

The  sailors  and  fishermen  of  Ancona  who 
had  volunteered,  rushing  into  the  fray  like 
bronzed  fiends,  knew  him,  and  their  shouts 
of  praise,  prayers,  and  benedictions  followed 
him  everywhere.  They  called  him  St. 
Michael,  the  patron  saint  of  the  city  ;  they 
cried,  "  He  is  watched  over  by  our  Holy 
Lady  of  Loreto ;  no  harm  can  befall  him, 
for  all  the  blessed  angels  guard  him." 
There  was  something  in  his  calm,  pale  face 
and  tender  blue  eyes  that  won  love  and 
reverence  from  all.  Fearless  of  his  own 
life,  he  rushed  into  the  midst  of  the  carnage, 
that  he  might  rescue  from  the  feet  of  the 
crowd  and  the  tramp  of  the  cavalry  some 
poor  wretch  borne  down  by  the  stress  of 
the  battle. 

"  Who  is  that  man  in  gray  ?  "  inquired  a 
French  general.  "  He  seems  to  bear  a 
charmed  life ;  I  should  think  him  the  patron 
saint  of  Ancona,  protected  by  our  Lady  of 
Loreto ;  he  performs  wonderful  feats"  of 
strength  and  courage.  I  just  taw  him  dracc 
a  dragoon  from  under  the  horse  that  had 
fallen  on  him.  By  Jove !  an  action  worthy 
Hercules ! " 

"They  say  he  is  an  Englishman,  mon 
',  and  he  treats  all  alike,"  replied  the 
;  Zouave  to  whom  the  question  was  ad- 
dressed;  "just  now  I  saw  him  tearing  off 
the  sleeves  of  his  shirt  to  bind  up  fil- 
tered arm  of  a  poor  Swiss  who  was  bleeding 
to  death." 

"  A  splendid  fellow  ! "  muttered  the  officer 
under  his  grizzled  mustache.  "  There  is 
something  familiar  in  his  figure  and  air;  [ 
believe  I  have  seen  him  before."  A  sti 
expression  passed  over  his  face,  ami,  i-lnkin^ 
his  spurs  into  his  horse,  as  though  panned 
by  a  fiend,  he  plunged  into  the  thickest  of 
the  battle. 

The  day  wore  on,  and  the  panic  innvuM-d ; 
retreating  toward  the  sea,  the  few  who  re- 
mained to  fight  were  fallin*  one  by  one 
under  the  merciless  fire  of  the  Piedmonteso 


104 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


artillery.  Many  who  plunged  into  the 
Musone  were  followed  by  the  pitiless  shot ; 
staining  the  water  with  their  blood,  they 
floated'out  to  the  broad  sea,  —  fea.r,  despair, 
and  passion  alike  ended  forever. 

"  No  rnercy !  no  mercy ! "  cried  the  Italian 
soldiers.  "  Our  Lady  of  Loreto  behind,  and 
St.  Michael  before !  the  victory  is  ours  be- 
cause the  Madonna  watches  over  us  from 
yonder  shrine  on  the  hill.  We  will  not 
spare  these  invaders ;  death  to  the  Francesi  ! 
death  to  the  Tedeschi .' "  Many  poor  wretches 
sold  their  lives  dearly,  fighting  with  gleam- 
ing daggers  and  bloody  hands,  going  into 
eternity  with  curses  on  their  lips.  And 
everywhere  went  the  tall  man  in  gray. 
Having  thrown  aside  his  hat  in  the  begin- 
ning of  the  'Struggle,  his  hair  was  matted 
with  sweat  and  dust,  his  face  and  hands 
grimy  with  smoke,  his  clothes  torn  and 
stained  with  blood,  and  yet  he  never  flinched, 
never  grew  weary,  heeded  not  the  burning 
sun,  or  the  hail  of  shot  and  ball.  Many  a 
poor  Zouave  blessed  him  with  his  last 
breath,  as  he  died  with  the  kind,  pitying 
face  bending  over  him.  And  a  fair-haired 
German  murmured,  as  the  soul  passed  from 
the  lacerated,  bleeding  body,  "  You  are  like 
the  Christ  my  mother  told  me  of  when  1 
was  a  child." 

A  battalion  of  Piedmontese  had  just 
launched  a  deadly  hail  of  burning  shot  into 
a  remnant  of  a  Zouave  regiment,  who  were 
struggling  with  desperate  energy  and  fury 
against  an  Italian  brigade.  A  howl  of  rage 
and  despair  burst  from  them,  as  their 
general,  a  fine  stately  man,  struck  by  two 
balls,  staggered  and  fell  under  the  feet  of 
his  retreating  soldiers. 

In  a  moment  a  strong  arm  drew  him  be- 
yond the  line,  and  the  man  in  gray  stood 
looking  horror-stricken  on  his  ghastly  face. 
All  expression  of  tenderness  and  pity  had 
vanished,  and  from  his  eyes  gleamed  a  hate 
terrible  to  behold. 

"  At  last,  at  last,"  he  muttered  between 
his  clenched  teeth,  "  at  last  face  to  face ; 
but  he  is  dying,  he  is  unconscious,  and  I 
cannot  wrench  the  secret  from  him.     I  have 
found  him,  but  it  is  too  late.     O  my  God, 
let  him  live  but  to  reveal  to  me  what  I  so 
long  to  know,  and  I  — "   He  paused;  the 
words  seemed  to  choke  him,  for  he  gasped 
as  one  in  mortal  agony.     Then,  suddenly 
falling  on  his  knees,  he  bowed  his  head  be- 
side the  dying  man,  and  prayed  vehemently,  j 
Still  the  hate  and  desire  for  revenge  had  | 
not  passed  from  his  heart,  and  he  looked  j 
coldly  on  the  red  stream  that  welled  from 
the  breast,  staining  the  sod  around  him. 

"  I  wished  for  his  heart's  blood  once,"  he 
said.  "  Now  it  flows  before  me,  but  my 
hand  has  not  shed  it.  He  will  escape  me  ; 
in  a  few  moments  more  he  will  be  beyond 
the  reach  of  my  revenge.  0  my  God,  my 


God ! "  he  cried,  with  almost  frenzy,  "  and 
has  it  all  been  useless,  —  all  these  struggles 
with  self,  all  these  prayers,  all  these  efforts 
to  make  some  atonement  ?  Yes,  it  has 
been  in  vain,  for  I  have  not  conquered  this 
deadly  hate ;  I  thought  it  was  laid  to  rest 
forever,  and  I  could  meet  him  calmly.  But 
no,  no,  it  is  not.  The  demon  stirs  within 
me,  and  rises  with  double  strength.  He  is 
dying  before  me,  and  I  would  not  stretch  out 
my  hand  to  save  him.  O,  if  I  could  have 
heard  him  speak  !  If  he  had  told  me  she  was 
innocent,  I  would  have  forgiven  him,  and 
he  should  have  died  with  his  head  upon  my 
breast."  His  face  fell  into  his  hand,  and  he 
remained  again  for  a  few  moments  silently 
imploring  God  for  strength  to  gain  this  last 
victory,  this  victory  over  his  own  soul,  when 
on  his  ear  fell  a  voice,  a  faint  and  feeble 
voice;  yet  familiar, —  a  voice  that  spoke  to  his 
heart  with  the  tones  of  other  days, —  "  Water, 
water."  He  raised  his  head,  and  the  dying 
man's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  with  a  sort 
of  horror  and  fear.  Struggling  to  his  elbow, 
and  pushing  back  the  hair  from  his  ghastly 
forehead,  he  gasped,  "  Yes,  it  is  he.  I  am 
dying,  Vandeleur,  it  is  too  late  for  ven- 
geance." 

"  Hush.  De  Villiers,"  he  said,  with  a  voice 
of  extreme  gentleness,  and  a  light  on  his 
face  like  one  who  had  been  in  the  presence 
of  the  Deity.  "  God  knows  that  now  I  do 
not  desire  vengeance ;  a  few  moments  ago 
I  did,  but  now  the  hate  in  my  heart  is  dead 
forever." 

He  raised  the  head  of  the  dying  man  to 
his  breast,  and,  putting  a  flask  of  wine  and 
water  to  his  lips,  he  said  in  a  voice  of  ago- 
nized anxiety,  "  Tell  me  but  one  thing,  De 
Villiers,  tell  me  but  one  thing,  and  all  is 
forgotten  from  this  moment  between  us. 
Tell  me,  was  she  innocent  ?  " 

De  Villiers  raised  his  eyes  to  the  face 
bending  above  him,  —  eyes  already  filled 
with  the  mysterious  light  of  eternity,  —  and 
said,  in  a  weak  but  impressive  voice,  "  Yes, 
she  was  innocent.  The  letter  I  wrote  you 
was  as  false  as  the  fiendish  heart  that 
dictated  it." 

"  My  God,  I  thank  thee  !  "  And  Richard 
Vandeleur  raised  his  eyes  upward  with  a 
look  so  eloquent  of  gratitude  that  the  angel 
who  registered  it  must  have  blotted  out  for- 
ever from  the  book  of  life  the  record  of  many 
of  his  sins. 

"  Let  me  do  something  to  stop  this  blood," 
he  cried,  tearing  open  the  coat  of  the  dying 
man. 

"  It  is  useless,  the  wound  is  mortal ;  I  have 
but  a  moment  to  live." 

"  Then  tell  me,  I  implore  you,  where  is 
she  ?  Is  she  living  ?  " 

"  I  know  not,  1  cannot  tell  you ;  I  have 
not  seen  her  since  she  fled  from  me  in  the 
niaht  and  darkness." 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


105 


"  O,  explain  !  "  pleaded  Vandeleur,  in  a 
voice  of  trembling  eagerness. 

"  Raise  me  a  little,  so  that  the  blood  will 
not  choke  me,  and  I  will  try  to  tell  you  all. 
From  the  first  I  had  conceived  a  violent 
passion  for  the  girl ;  as  soon  as  you  left,  I 
began  my  base  attempts  to  win  her  froin 
you.  1  soon  saw  it  was  useless ;  she  was 
too  pure  and  innocent  to  understand  my 
hints  and  insinuations,  and  loved  you  too 
entirely  to  think  for  a  moment  of  another. 
I  then  determined  to  separate  you,  thinking, 
IL  >he  believed  you  unworthy,  she  would  tuni 
to  me ;  wrote  that  base  letter  to  you,  after 
which  I  told  her  of  the  false  marriage.  She  j 
would  not  believe  it ;  I  protested  it  Avas  true, 
but  she  was  still  incredulous  until  I  showed 
her  a  letter  you  had  written  to  me,  in  which 
you  referred  to  it,  as  you  often  did  in  your 
fits  of  remorse,  regretting  the  crime  you  had 
committed.  When  she  saw  it  in  your  own 
writing,  she  believed  it.  At  first  she  seemed 
horror-stricken,  then  almost  mad  with  rage 
and  indignation  at  the  deceit  and  wrong  you 
had  practised  upon  her.  She  implored  me 
to  take  her  away  to  some  retreat  where  she 
never  could  see  you  again.  I  wished  to 
leave  the  place,  fearing  you  might  suspect 
some  villany  and  return  at  once  before  I  ! 
had  succeeded  in  my  object.  I  agreed  read- 
ily to  her  proposal  and  left  the  cottage,  tell- 
ing the  servant  we  were  going  to  you. 

"  That  night  we  stopped  at  a  poor  inn,  at 
a  little  hamlet   near  Ancona.     Alone,  with 
this  unprotected,  suffering  creature  entirely 
in  my  power,  a  demon  took  possession  of  me, 
and  I  made  advances  to  her  which  she  re- 
pulsed with  the  indignant  pride  and  scorn 
of  an  outraged  angel.     In  the  darkness  she 
fled  from  me ;  I  pursued,  but  failed  to  find  | 
her.     In  tbe  morning  I  continued  my  search, 
but  could  di.-cover  no  trace  of  her.     Think-  i 
ing  she  had  fled  to  you,  and  your  vengeance  i 
would  be  terrible  if  you  overtook  me,  I  left 
the  country.     I  have  never  seen  her  face 
since  that  night  she  looked  reproach  and 
scorn  into  mine." 

The  hot  tears  fell  one  by  one  on  the 
upturned  face  of  the  dying  man,  and  the 
strong  finders  clasped  tighter  the  damp 
cold  hand  that  rested  in  his. 

"I  forgive  you,  God  knows  I  forgive  you  ! 
How  she  must  have  suffered,  poor  hunted, 
tortured  creature  !  O,  if  I  could  but  look 
into  her  face  for  one  moment,  and  know  she 
was  sate,  I  should  be  willing  to  die  in  your 
stead,  De  Villiers  !  " 

"  If  she  is  not  on  earth  she  is  safe  in  para- 
dise ;  such  angels  as  she  are  not  lost.     But  if 
she  still  lives  and  you  ever  see  her,  implore 
o    forgive   me;    tell  her  i  asked  it 
dying." 

"  A   film    gathered   over    his   eye?,    large 

and  se.archin'.!:,  with  the  intense  expression 

of  those  who  stand  on  the  boundary  line  of 

14 


a  new  country,  striving  to  look  farther  than 
is  allowed  to  mortal  \  ision  ;  and  he  said  in 
a  voice  sinking  far  down  below  the  level  of 
life,  "  How  I  have  sinned  !  but  of  all  my 
crimes  that  was  the  greatest.  I  h;ue  been 
punished,  fearfully  punit-hed.  I  have  lost 
all,  friends,  wealth,  and  love ;  and  I  am 
living,  with  a  wasted  life  behind,  and  a  dark 
and  terrible  uncertainty  before  me.  I  have 
fought  like  a  demon  to-day,  ;:nd  the  blood 
I  have  shed  has  cried  for.  vengeance  against 
me,  and  it  has  followed  me  close  and  sure. 
Ah,  if  I  had  fought  for  a  cause  I  loved !  but 
I  have  not.  I  have  been  but  a  hireling  in 
the  hands  of  others.  Still,  Vande'cur,  you 
have  forgiven  me;  you  whom  I  have  so 
wronged.  In  those  old  days  I  loved  you; 
yes,  believe  me,  I  loved  you  as  well  as  I 
could  love  anything.  But  the  evil  in  me 
was  stronger  than  the  good,  and  I  could  not 
resist  the  promptings  oi'  the  fiend.  Ah,  what 
a  weak  fool  I  have  been  !  1  have  poured  oil 
on  the  fire  of  my  own  passions.  You  re- 
member how  I  scoffed  at  virtue.  She 
taught  me  its  strength  ;  and  now  that  I  can 
die  in  your  arms,  as>ural  of  your  forgiveness, 
convinces  me  that  there  is  some  divinity 
moulded  into  our  base  clay.  Look  into  my 
face  with  your  gentle  eyes,  mon  ami,  and  let 
me  see  for  a  moment  the  old  smile  there. 
Do  you  remember  those  nights  on  the 
Adriatic  when  she  sang  to  us,  '  J\'on  ti 
scordar,  non  ti  scordar  di  me  '  ?  Angels  and 
Mother  of  God,  have  mercy  on  me  I  I  see 
Christ  far  above  me,  extended  on  the  cross, 
and  though  there  is  agony  on  his  I  now  there 
is  pity  in  his  eyes,  —  j;ity  like  yours,  Van- 
deleur. If  I  might  but  reach  up  through  the 
darkness  and  touch  his  feet,  I  should  be 
saved." 

He  raised  his  arms  for  a  mom-cnt.  With 
a  long,  straining  gaze  he  loolud  in  to  the  blue 
heavens  ;  but  he  saw  nothing  MI\  e  a  ]  ityin<j 
face  bending  from  the  darkness  above  and 
around,  into  which  his  pcor  scul  ventured 
timidly.  Who  can  follow  it  beyond  the  line 
of  vision?  The  horizon  dips  down  into  the 
sea,  but  we  know  not  if  beyond  there  may 
not  be  an  island  of  peace  for  such  tempest- 
tossed  pilgrims. 

He  died,  the  memory  of  his  sins  before 
him,  the  roar  and  din  of  battle  around  him, 
and  his  head  on  the  bruut  of  the  man  who 
had  once  been  his  deadly  enemy.  \Vhc  n  sin 
and  sorrow,  penitence  and  renu  i>e,  life  and 
death,  meet  in  Mich  s-harp  i  \trcmes,  we 
know  not  what  »lorious  results  are  born  of 
such  agonized  travail. 

Richard  Vandclcur  knelt  gn/ing  into  the 
ghastly  face,  that  b.*re  the  mavks  of  a  terrible 
conflict,  long  after  the  breath  ha  1  left  the 
cold  lips.  An  ineffable  peace  had  fallen 
upon  him  ;  he  scarcely  heard  the  roar  :Mid 
fury  of  the  battle  that"  Mill  rauvd  at  a  little 
distance.  One  thought  filled  all  his  -.ml 


106 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


•with  joy,  —  she  was  innocent,  and  if  she 
lived  she  loved  him  .'till ;  yes,  in  spite  of  the 
wrong  he  had  done  her,  he  i'elt  she  had  for- 
given him  and  loved  him  still. 

Suddenly  through  the  hot  air  came  a  seeth- 
ing, hissing  emissary  of  death.  Something 
pierced  his  lungs  with  a  sharp  pain.  He 
threw  up  his  hands,  and  fell  forward  sense- 
less on  the  cold  breast  of  De  Villiers. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

UNDER   THE   LIGHT   OF   THE    MOON. 

THE  struggle  of  life !  O  the  sharp- 
ness of  the  conflict  in  which  we  engage 
against  the  world,  our  fellow-creatures,  and 
ourselves  !  From  the  cradle  to  the  grave  we 
find  living  a  contest,  and  the  earth  a  vast 
battle-fiald  covered  with  the  slain.  We 
spring  into  being  with  a  wail,  and,  face  to 
face  with  Nature,  we  find  in  her  an  unpity- 
ing  adversary.  Her  suns  scorch  us,  her 
froststfreeze  us,  her  winds  tear  us  from  every 
shelter,  her  seas  ingulf  us,  her  rocks  are 
hurled  upon  us,  her  thunderbolts  cleave  the 
heavens  and  descend  in  fury  to  wrench  from 
us  the  feeble  existence  she  has  bestowed. 
Men  prey  upon  men  with  the  ferocity  of  wild 
beasts;  envy,  jealousy,  pride,  and  ambition 
are  the  motives  that  impel  men  to  pursue 
and  hunt  each  other  with  unwearying  hos- 
tility ;  the  more  feeble,  the  more  appealing 
for  protection  and  support,  the  quicker  we 
are  borne  down,  trampled  on,  and  passed 
over  hy  the  hurrying  feet  of  our  enemies. 

Poor  butterflies !  we  go  forth  and  sport  a 
little  while  in  the  sunlight  of  the  morning  ; 
the  flower's  woo  us,  the  breeze  bears  us  on 
buoyant  pinions,  the  songs  of  birds  fill  the 
air  around  us,  and  we  rejoice  in  the  life  of 
life.  But  the  storm  comes,  and  who  heeds 
us  when  our  wings  are  soiled  and  torn,  and 
we  are  beaten  into  the  mire  ?  The  flowers 
that  wooed  us  turn  away  their  languid  heads, 
the  birds  sing  for  other  gay  flutterers,  and 
the  breeze  that  bore  us  up  to  heaven  on  glad 
wings  serves  but  to  impel  us  downward; 
the  myriads  of  toilers  and  strugglers  who 
have  fallen  in  the  strife  make  the  world  one 
vast  tomb.  One  generation  passes  away, 
and  another  arises  on  its  ashes ;  and  who 
shall  know  or  care  in  the  succeeding  ages 
what  hearts  have  suffered,  beat,  and'bled, 
or  how  many  weary  heads  have  ached  with 
painful  thought,  how  many  hungry  souls 
have  striven  to  lift  the  curtain  that  hid  from 
them  the  great  unknown  ?  Not  one  discov- 
ery in  art  or  science  has  been  made  but 
some  one  has  fallen  a  victim  to  the  truth  he 
upheld,  and  has  bought  with  his  own  blood 
the  achievement  of  his  life-long  efforts.  Of 
all  the  enemies  that  besiege  us,  the  most 


difficult  to  vanquish  is  self;  we  stand  ap- 
palled, face  to  face  with  an  adversary 
against  whom  many  have  striven,  but  striven 
in  vain.  They  have  iuund  the  rebel  heart 
and  the  stubborn  brain  too  strong  icr  human 
strength  to  crush;  some  have  conquered. 
but  more  have  died  before  the  conquest. 
We  all  have  struggled  and  suffered,  and 
whether  we  overcome  or  are  overcome,  still 
on  the  battle-field  of  life  we  must  not  lie 
down  on  our  shields  to  rest  until  the  final 
victory  is  won,  until  the  last  trump  of  the 
archangel  is  sounded. 

The  moon  looked  down  with  pitying  face 
upon  the  deserted  hattle-field  of  Castel  Fi- 
dardo,  —  deserted  save  by  the  dead  and 
dying,  and  the  angels  of  mercy  who  went 
here  and  there  binding  up  the  wounds  and 
holding  the  cup  of  cold  waier  alike  to  the 
lips  of  friend  and  fee. 

Everywhere  went  two  Benedictine  monks, 
and  with  them  a  Sister  of  Charity,  her  face 
pale  and  sweet  as  a  sorrowing  angel  carved 
over  the  tomb  of  a  saint.  Eyes  large  and 
soft,  from  which  the  fires  of  passion  seemed 
burnt  out  forever,  looked  from  the  project- 
ing hood  of  serge  with  infinite  tenderness 
and  pity ;  and  lips  that  once  must  have 
whispered  words  of  love  drooped  in  mourn- 
ful curves,  as  she  murmured  an  Agnus  Dei 
over  a  dying  soldier. 

Tenderly  she  washes  away  the  clotted 
blood  from  the  feverish  wounds ;  with  skilful 
fingers  she  binds  up  the  shattered  limbs ; 
the  cold  water  she  places  to  the  parched 
lips  seems  nectar,  and  the  ccol  soft  hand 
pressed  upon  the  dust-stained  brow  is  like 
the  tender  touch  of  a  cherub's  wing.  Every- 
where she  bears  with  her  a  sense  of  calm 
and  refreshing,  and  many  dim  eyes  are 
turned  in  blessings  upon  her  as  she  passes. 

Near  the  trenches  on  the  ground  sits  a 
young  girl  with  dishevelled  hair  and  ghastly  • 
brow.  Against  her  bosom  rests  the  bronzed 
face  of  a  young  man.  He  has  been  some 
hours  dead,  but  she  does  not  know  it ;  the 
thinks  him  sleeping  from  exhaustion  and 
weakness,  and  she  sways  back  and  forth, 
and  murmurs  to  him  as  a  mother  would  to 
a  weary  child.  It  is  poor  Antonio,  the  fish- 
erman of  Sinigaglia,  to  whom  Richard  Van- 
deleur  had  given  thirty  scudi  that  he  might 
be  united  to  his  Francesca.  But  a  mightier 
than  poverty  has  come  between  them  now ;  it 
is  death,  and  the  bride  of  a  few  weeks  does 
not  know  it,  for  the  fear  and  agony  of  the  day 
have  benumbed  and  clouded  her  reason. 
And  she  sits  there  murmuring  the  same* 
words  of  love,  always  ending  with  the  ques- 
tion, "  Antonio  mio,  why  dost  thou  sleep  so 
heavily  ?  " 

Sister  Agnese  draws  near,  and  stands  for 
a  moment  gazing  on  the  group  with  eyes  of 
intense  pity.  Then,  softly  laying  her  hand 
on  the  girl's  head,  she  says,  "Francesca 


WOVEN   OF   MANY   THREADS. 


107 


mia,  why  do  you  sit  there  on  the  damp 
ground  ?  Your  Antonio  is  very  weary  ;  he 
has  need  of  rest ;  let  these  men  take  him  to  his 
home.  And  you,  pnvera  jif/lia,  go  yonder  to 
the  shrine  of  the  Madonna,  and  pray  that 
he  may  awake.  Padre  Hypolito,"  beckoning 
to  the  monk,  "  cannot  you  persuade  her  to 
leave  him  for  a  moment?  He  is  dead  and 
she  does  not  know  it,  her  reason  is  quite 
gone." 

"  Figlia  mia"  said  the  monk,  putting  his 
arm  around  her,  and  gently  endeavoring  to 
remove  the  dead,  "  come  with  me  to  the 
shrine  of  our  Lady,  we  will  pray  for  your 
Antonio." 

'•  My  Antonio !  "  she  cried  wildly,  press- 
ing him  to  her  heart,  and  kissing  again  and 
again  his  cold  lips,  "  why  do  you  not 
awake  ?  " 

"  He  will  awake  no  more,"  said  the  nun, 
"unless  you  say  many  paternosters  to  our 
Lady  of  Loreto." 

"  1  will  go  then,  I  will  go  quickly,  that  he 
may  open  his  eyes  and  smile  on  me,  that  I 
may  hear  his  voice  calling  me,  '  Carissima 
mia.'  "  Gently  she  laid  him  down,  folding 
her  apron  for  a  pillow,  and  crossing  his  al- 
ready rigid  hands  on  his  breast.  "  Caro 
bello,"  she  murmured,  as  the  monk  led  her 
away  toward  Loreto,  "  I  will  return  to  you 
directly."  Then  Sister  Agnese  made  a  sign 
to  the  men  to  raise  him  and  carry  him 
away. 

The  moon  rose  higher  in  the  heavens  and 
floated  in  serene  splendor  above  the  scene 
of  suffering  and  death,  revealing  the  ghastly 
upturned  faces,  with  wide-open  eyes.  They 
seemed  by  their  fixed  intensity  even  yet  to 
implore  pity  from  heaven.  The  river  mur- 
mured and  rippled  and  sparkled  between 
its  reed-covered  banks,  where  the  spirit  of 
night  whispered  mysteriously  to  the  double- 
dyed  crimson  "papavero,  that  gently  dropped 
its  soporiferous  petals  on  the  pallid  brows 
of  the  silent  sleepers,  who  needed  neither 
mandragora  nor  poppy  to  lull  them  to  re- 
pose, for  after  the  frenzy  and  fury  of  the 
day  they  slept  well. 

Mingled  with  the  sad  murmur  of  the 
Adriatic  came  at  regular  intervals  the 
booming  of  the  cannons,  as  the  enemy  bom- 
barded the  hilly  fortress  of  Ancona,  and 
across  the  transparent  blue  air  flashed  and 
flickered  the  baleful  light  of  the  returning 
fire.  From  the  city  above  came  the  roar 
and  din  of  the  battle;  for  although  Night 
had  dropped  her  sable  curtain  and  lulled 
"  nature  to  repose,  yet  the  unquiet  heart  of 
man,  filled  with  hellish  hate,  still  struggled 
'for  victory  with  unabated  fury. 

Sister  Agnese  passed  here  and  there  over 
the  field,  wherever  a  dark  outline  or  a  con- 
fused heap  told  her  some  poor  remnant  of 
humanity  needed  aid.  pity,  or  prayer.  Sud- 
denjy  she  stopped,  and,  clasping  her  hand  to 


her  heart  with  a  suffocating  cry,  she  fell  on 
her  knees  before  a  ghastly  heap,  the  bleed- 
ing forms  of  two  men,  one  in  the  uniform  of 
a  French  colonel,  the  other  in  a  citizen's 
dress  of  ;jray. 

She  did  not  see  the  face  of  the  man  in 
gray,  for  it  was  hidden  on  the  breast  of  the 
other,  but  on  one  finger  of  the  outstretched 
hands  clasped  above  his  head  glittered  a 
ring  of  singular  device  and  brilliancy.  With 
a  frenzy  of  strength  she  raised  the  body, 
and,  turning  the  face  toward  the  light,  ex- 
amined the  features  closely. 

What  was  there  in  the  worn  bearded  face, 
the  ghastly  brow,  the  tangled  blood-stained 
hair,  to  remind  her  of  the  fresh  boyish  cheek, 
the  clear  blue  eyes,  the  brown  curls  of  the 
head  that  had  so  often  rested  on  her  bosom  ? 
Scarcely  a  trace.  Yet  it  was  the  same ; 
she  knew  it  with  the  power  by  which  one 
soul  recognizes  another  in  eternity,  though 
separated  from  the  form  and  face  it  bore  on 
earth. 

"  My  God  !  "  she  said,  "  both  here,  — one 
lying  dead  on  the  breast  of  the  other.  Is  it 
thus,  after  all  these  years,  I  meet  the  men 
who  have  worked  out  for  me  such  a  terrible 
destiny,  who  have  branded  my  life  with 
such  a  sin  ?  0  Riccardo  mio  !  "  she  moaned, 
as  she  laid  his  head  on  her  knee,  and  clasped 
her  hands  as  one  in  prayer,  "I  had  hoped 
that  at  the  last  thou  would st  have  had  time 
for  repentance  and  absolution,  so  in  paradise 
I  could  have  met  thee,  and  lived  with  thee 
forever.  But  thou  hast  died  here  without 
confession  or  sacrament,  and  now  indeed 
thou  art  lost  to  me  for  eternity.  How 
changed,  how  changed ! "  she  continued, 
gazing  at  him  with  the  pathos  of  pity  in  her 
eyes  and  voice ;  and  as  she  gazed  a  new  ex- 
pression passed  over  her  face,  and  a  new 
light  beamed  from  the  depths  of  her  mourn- 
ful eyes.  Clasping  his  head  to  her  breast, 
and  pressing  her  cheek  against  his,  she 
cried :  — 

"  Pieta,  Signore  !  I  thought  this  love  was 
dead  forever;  but  no.  it  has  only  slumbered, 
and  n\)w  it  stirs,  awakes,  and  springs  to  life 
with  its  olden  fervor.  O,  if  he  were  but 
living  before  me  I  would  forget  all,  even  the 
crime  that  separated  us,  and  follow  him  for- 
ever, until  he  smiled  upon  me  I  My  woman's 
heart  cries  to  me.  My  love,  my  life,  I  re- 
member those  old  days  of  bliss.  Of  what 
use  have  been  my  prayers  and  fasting,  the 
gloomy  walls  of  my  cell,  the  cold  Mor.e  where 
I  have  slept,  the  scourge,  the  penance,  and 
tlu  mortification  ?  It  is  all  forgotten.  I  re- 
member only  the  hours  I  lay  on  your  Im-.T-t, 
the  moonlit  seas  where  we  Boated,  'the 
still,  green  places  where  we  met.'  I  would 
give  up  my  hopes  of  eternal  happiness  in  the 
presence  of  the  Madonna  for  one  hour  of 
the  olden  bliss.  O  sinner  that  I  am !  O 
blasphemer !  what  do  I  say  ?  Mother  of 


108 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


Christ,  forgive  me ;  thou  who  wast  a  woman, 
intercede  for  me ! " 

Praying  and  weeping,  while  the  scalding 
tears  fell  on  the  dear  face  pressed  to  her 
heart,  she  fancied  a  faint  sigh  fluttered  to 
her  ear  like  the  wing  of  a  dying  bird.  With 
frantic  haste  she  tore  open  his  clothes,  and, 
pressing  her  hand  to  his  heart,  she  ex- 
claimed, "  He  lives,  he  lives  !  " 

The  transformation  from  despair  to  joy 
was  sudden,  and  her  voice  rang  out  clear 
and  shrill  on  the  air  as  she  cried,  "  Padre 
Benedetto,  send  hither  some  men  with  a 
litter."  In  a  moment  a  monk  and  two 
fishermen  were  at  her  side. 

"  Lift  him  gently,"  she  said,  with  a  smile 
of  almost  joy  ;  "  he  still  lives,  and  we  may 
save  him." 

"  Ah  !  it  is  our  Signore  Inglese,"  they  said, 
as  they  raised  him  tenderly.  "  He  has 
risked  his  life  for  us  many  times  to-day  ;  we 
will  save  him  if  we  can." 

"  And  this  Francese  ? "  inquired  one, 
spurning  the  body  of  De  Villiers  with  his 
foot.  "  Let  the  ravens  eat  him." 

"  Hush ! "  cried  Sister  Agnese,  sternly. 
"  Are  ye  men  or  brutes  that  ye  speak  so  ? 
He  has  injured  me  more  than  any  of  you, 
and  I  forgive  him.  Let  his  body  be  decently 
cared  for." 

Pressing  one  of  the  cold  hands  of  Richard 
Vandeleur  to  her  lips,  she  walked  by  his 
side  while  they  carried  him  to  the  nearest 
cottage.  She  visited  no  more  the  battle- 
field that  night,  but  after  the  surgeon  had 
dressed  his  wound  and  rendered  him  as 
comfortable  as  possible,  she  knelt  by  his 
bed  and  prayed  with  passionate  fervor  that 
he  might  be  restored  to  consciousness  long 
enough  to  know  her,  if  only  for  one  mo- 
ment. 

As  the  rosy  dawn  stole  through  the  little 
window  of  the  hovel  where  he  lay,  it  found 
the  pale  nun  still  kneeling  by  his  bed.  She 
had  thrown  aside  her  hood  and  mantle  of 
serge,  and  torn  off  the  white  bandage  that 
confined  and  concealed  her  hair.  She  wished, 
if  he  awoke,  he  might  see  her  as  in  .those 
olden  days.  With  her  crucifix  clasped  in 
her  hands  like  the  penitent  Magdalene,  she 
prayed  that  she  might  be  forgiven  because 
she  had  loved  much. 

Slowly,  slowly  the  red  tide  of  life  drifted 
back  to  the  white  lip  and  cheek  of  the  suf- 
fering man.  He  opened  his  eyes  with  a 
confused  memory  that  Mona  had  been  the 
last  in  his  thoughts,  and  now  his  lips  first 
murmured  her  name.  With  a  cry  of  rap- 
ture she  clasped  his  hands,  saying,  "  I 
am  here,  Riccardo  mio,  I  am  here;  your 
Mona  is  by  your  side.  Do  you  not  know 
me?" 

•  He  looked  long  and  searchingly  into  her 
face,  then  a  smile  of  recognition  trembled 
on  his  lips,  and,  raising  his  weak  arms,  he 


drew  her  to  him  and  pressed  her  closely  to 
his  heart  without  a  word. 

The  golden  sunlight  flooded  the  dingy 
room ;  the  birds  shook  the  dew  from  their 
wings  and  floated  up  to  heaven  with  jubilant 
songs.  But  these  two  poor  souls,  united  at 
last  after  so  many  years  of  weary  waiting, 
heeded  not  the  awakening  of  nature,  neither 
the  shadow  of  a  dark  wing  that  rested  upon 
them.  Oblivious  of  all  but  that  heart  beat 
to  heart,  and  lip  was  pressed  to  lip,  they 
lay  weeping  in  each  other's  embrace. 


CHAPTER   XL. 

RICHARD  VANDELEUR'S  REPARATION. 

^FOWARD  the  last  of  September,  one 
JL  delicious  morning,  Constance,  leaning 
on  the  arm  of  Guido,  and  talking  in  a  light, 
lively  strain,  wandered  through  the  winding 
paths  of  the  orange-gardens  at  Sans  Souci. 
They  were  'as  happy  as  two  children,  living 
in  each  other's  society,  surrounded  by  con- 
genial friends,  in  the  midst  of  a  paradise  of 
beauty,  enjoying  to  the  full  the  dolce  far 
niente. 

Guido  had  sent  in  his  resignation  to  the 
chapel,  which  had  been  reluctantly  accepted, 
and  now  he  was  free  to  marry.  It  was 
Lady  Dinsmore's  wish,  that,  after  spending 
the  next  winter  in  Rome,  they  should  all 
return  to  England  together,  and  the  wed- 
ding should  take  place  at  Dinsmore  Castle. 
Constance  was  too  happy  in  the  present  to 
desire  any  change ;  yet  she  sometimes  a?ked 
herself,  "  Is  this  to  end  as  my  other  hopes 
have  ?  Am  I  too  secure  ?  Is  there  even 
now  a  dark  cloud  gathering  in  my  horizon, 
that  may  break  over  me  at  any  moment  ? 
No,  it  cannot  be ;  I  have  suffcred  so  much. 
I  feel  now  it  is  ended,  and  my  future  will 
be  happier  than  my  past.  He  loves  me ; 
then  what  have  I  to  fear  ?  " 

She  rarely  indulged  in  siich  thoughts,  for 
Guido  was  so  joyous,  so  contented  ;  and  his 
sweetness  of  disposition  seemed  infectious, 
it  was  impossible  to  be  sad  with  him.  This 
morning  there  was  no  cloud  in  their  heaven. 
They  were  talking,  in  the  security  of  a  joyful 
present,  of  an  undoubted,  blissful  future. 

"  I  shall  not  be  idle  always,  dear,"  Guido 
said.  "  I  shall  strive  to  become  a  composer 
that  the  world  will  not  refuse  to  recognize. 
And  you  shall  be  proud  of  me,  my  dar- 
ling." 

"  I  am  very  proud  of  you  now,"  she  re- 
plied, with  a  shy,  sweet  smile ;  "  and  noth- 
ing you  can  do  will  make  me  love  you  any 
better." 

"  Bella  mia ! "  he  said,  with  a  look  of 
deep  love  and  gratitude,  "  what  have  I  done 
to  merit  such  an  an^el  ?  " 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


And,  so  talking,  they  turned  a  winding 
path  and  came  upon  Helen  Tremaine  sitting 
alone  upon  a  garden  seat,  her  face  buried  in 
her  hands,  absorbed  in  deep  thought. 

"  Ah,  Mrs.  Tremaine  !  "  cried  Guido,  "  we 
have  caught  you  planning  some  new  mis- 
chief. The  brightest,  sweetest  rose  I  can 
find  for  a  full  confession." 

"  AVell,  I  will  confess  then,"  she  said, 
starting  up,  and  revealing  for  an  instant  a 
most  sad  and  pained  expression,  which 
passed  away  as  she  spoke.  "  I  am  horridly 
bored  in  this  stupid  place  and  with  this 
monotonous  life.  I  am  sick  of  your  sweet 
society,  I  am  surfeited  with  moonlighr,  love, 
and  flowers.  I  long  to  get  back  to  some 
city.  I  am  pining  for  a  drive  in  the  Bois 
or  on  the  Pincio.  O  my  life  in  Egypt  1  O 
the  flattery  and  the  strife ! "  and,  like 
Cleopatra,  she  would  have  added,  "  O  my 
Roman  Antony  !  "  "I  was  born  for  excite- 
ment, I  was  not  created  to  vegetate  in  rus- 
tic simplicity.  I  am  tired  of  white  dresses 
and  straw  hats  ;  in  fact,  I  would  like  to  make 
a  gorgeous  toilet,  and  go  to  an  ambassador's 
ball." 

Poor  unquiet  heart !  A  red  spot  burned 
on  her  cheek,  and  she  flung  herself  back  in 
her  old  position  with  impatient  weariness. 

"  I  fear  Mrs.  Tremaine  is  not  happy,"  said 
Constance,  as  they  continued  their  walk. 

A  servant  approached  them.  "  A  letter 
for  the  Signorina."  She  took  it,  and,  before 
breaking  the  seal,  said  quietly,  "It  is  from 
Mr.  Vandeleur." 

She  had  told  Guido  of  that  episode  in  her 
life  which  had  cost  her  such  pain  ;  never- 
theless his  cheek  flushed  slightly,  and  a 
bitter  pang  of  jealousy  shot  through  his 
heart,  when  he  saw  the  terrible  pallor  of 
her  face  as  she  read. 

"  O  Guido,  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  she  said, 
giving  him  the  letter  when  she  had  finished. 
It  was  very  short,  only  a  few  lines. 

"  Constance,  I  have  found  her,  but  I  am 
dying.  I  have  only  a  few  days  to  live. 
Will  you  come  to  me  ?  I  wish  to  see  you 
once  more,  and  you  may  be  able  to  comfort 
her  when  I  am  gone." 

"  What  shall  I  do?  "  she  said  again,  look- 
ing anxiously  in  his  face. 

"  We  will  go  to  him  directly,  my  darling," 
he  replied.  "  Poor  Mona,  I  loved  her  as  a 
sister ;  I  remember  our  childhood ;  now  she 
needs  me,  and  my  place  is  by  her  side. 
Let  us  seek  Lady  Dinsmore,  she  will  ac- 
company us."  That  same  day  they  left 
Naples  for  Ancona. 

In  one  of  the  largest  rooms  of  the  Hotel 
della  Pace,  overlooking  the  Adriatic,  lay 
Richard  Vandeleur,  supported  by  pillows, 
emaciated  and  pale ;  his  eyes  looking  out 
from  their  deep  hollows  with  a  startling 
intensity ;  his  whole  appearance  that  of 
one  on  the  very  confines  of  eternity,  yet 


over  all  the  pale  worn  face  was  an  expres- 
sion of  infinite  calm  and  content.  His 
wound,  which  was  through  his  ri'_rlit  lun'_r. 
refused  to  heal,  and  frequent  hemon-ha-.:*'  had 
so  reduced  him  that  nothing  could  po~il>Iy 
raise  him  from  the  weakness  and  exhaustion 
consequent.  By  his  side  sat  Mona,  no 
longer  in  the  dress  of  a  Sister  of  Charity. 
That  morning  she  had  told  all  her  sad 
history  to  a  kind-hearted  priest,  and  at  the 
earnest  request  of  Richard  Vandeleur  he 
had  performed  the  sacrament  that  made 
I  them  indeed  man  and  wife. 

He  was  listening  to  her  now ;  his  hand 
I  clasped  in  hers,  and  her  sad  eyes  fixed  on 
him  with  adoring  love. 

"  We  will  say  nothing  of  the  poor  sinner 
who  so  deceived  you,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
I  shudder.  "  He  has  gone  to  be  judged  by 
One  who  is  most  merciful.  It  is  true,  my 
darling,  he  parted  us,  but  that  should  have 
been,  —  it  was  necessary.  And  though  the 
means  were  wrong,  perhaps  the  result  has 
not  been  all  bad.  It  was  just  that  we 
should  perform  some  penance  to  atone  for 
our  sin." 

"  Our  sin,"  he  repeated,  sadly.  "My  sin, 
not  yours,  my  poor  child.  You  were  inno- 
cent." 

"No,  no,  I  was  not  entirely  innocent, 
for  I  loved  you  then  better  than  the  dear 
Madonna,  and  for  a  long  time  after;  and 
even  now,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice  and  with 
a  sudden  flush,  "  I  love  you  before  the  dear 
sisterhood  who  have  done  so  much  for  me, 
and  among  whom  I  have  found  a  shelter  for 
all  these  years.  0  Riccardu  mio,  I  will  forget 
them.  I  will  go  with  you  and  be  your 
slave.  It  may  be  a  sin,  but  I  shall  be  hap- 
py to  sit  at  your  feet  and  look  into  your 
face." 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  he  said 
solemnly,  "  Monn,  my  beloved,  you  nm*t 
not  think  of  any  future  with  me.  You  will  be 
spared  that  sin,  if  it  be  a  sin.  In  a  few  days 
I  shall  be  where  your  thoughts  can  follow 
me  without  disloyalty  to  your  religion.  Can 
you  not  see  I  am  dying?  My  dnrliivjr,  I 
cannot  remain  long  with  you,  but  in  a  little 
while  you  will  come  to  me." 

"  Do  not  speak  of  dying,"  she  cried,  with 
sharp  anguish  in  her  tones.  "  You  wiil  not 
die.  I  will  pray  to  the  Madonna  day  and 
night.  I  will  cling  to  her  feet  and  implore 
her  to  spare  you.  I  will  do  any  penanre. 
I  will  make  a  pilgrimage  over  the  rough 
stones  with  bleeding  feet;  I  will  scourgi: 
myself;  I  will  fast,  like  St.  Jerome;  I  will 
waste  my  poor  body  to  a  skeleton  until 
the  Mother  of  God  hears  and  grants  my 
prayer." 

There  was  a  fierce  light  in  her  eyes  and  a 
strange  compression  of  her  lips,  as  she 
clasped  his  bands  to  her  heart  with  almost 
frenzy. 


110 


WOVEN   OF   MANY  THREADS. 


"  I  thought  that  night,"  she  continued, 
"  when  I  fled  from  that  wicked  man  in  the 
darkness,  that  our  Lady  had  no  pity  on 
poor  suffering  women  like  ine  ;  but  the  next 
morning,  when  I  found  a  shelter  in  the  con- 
vent on  tlie  hill,  and  the  good  nuns  were  so 
kind  and  tender  to  me,  my  feelings  changed, 
and  I  was  all  gratitude  to  our  blessed 
Mother.  I  think,  darling,  we  are  all  so 
much  better  when  God  is  good  to  us ;  and 
then  when  my  dear  little  baby  was  born  the 
sisters  stood  over  me,  never  scorning  or 
despising  me,  although  they  had  just  cause 
to  think  me  a  sinner,  for  I  would  tell  them 
nothing.  I  felt  then  such  a  love  for  our 
Lord,  that,  like  the  Magdalene,  I  could  have 
washed  his  feet  with  my  tears.  But  when 
the  child  died,  a  few  days  after,  the  evil  spirit 
took  possession  of  me,  and  for  a  long  while 
1  hated  everything.  The  sunlight,  the  blue 
sea,  the  soft  breeze,  the  fragrant  flowers,  all, 
all  were  hateful  to  me,  and  even  the  good 
padre  who  ordered  fasting  and  the  cold  stone 
for  my  pillow.  Think  of  it,  after  pillowing 
my  head  so  long  on  thy  breast !  O,  it  was 
very  hard  then  !  I  thought  the  pictured 
Madonna  in  my  cell  mocked  rue  with  her 
smile  of  pity.  And  then  I  turned  it  to  the 
wall  until  the  padre  insisted  upon  my  look- 
ing at  it  and  praying  before  it.  Like  an 
angry  tiger  I  used  to  rush  back  and  forth 
in  my  narrow  dark  cell,  striking  my  head 
against  the  stones,  and  scourging  my  self  un- 
til the  blood  flowed  over  the  knotted  cord,  de- 
lighting in  the  pain  because  the  agony  of  my 
body  relieved  somewhat  my  mental  misery. 
It  was  years  before  I  was  subdued,  and 
then  what  an  infinity  of  pain  and  penance 
and  strife  it  cost  me !  But  at  last  gentler 
feelings  came.  It  was  at  the  time  of  the 
cholera,  when  many  were  dying,  and  I  tried 
to  do  something  for  my  fellow-creatures, 
that  the  cure  came,  or  perhaps  I  should  say 
the  partial  cure,  for  I  think  I  was  not 
wholly  cured  until  the  night  I  held  you  in 
my  arms  under  the  light  of  the  moon,  and 
felt  your  breath  on  my  cheek.  Then  all  the 
angels  of  God  sang  in  the  air  around  me, 
and  I  loved  our  blessed  Saviour  with  suffi- 
cient fervor  to  admit  me  into  his  presence. 
But  now,  now  if  he  takes  you  away,  the  dark 
spell  will  come  again.  I  feel  it,  I  know  it. 
Nothing  can  avert  it.  I  shall  die  of  mad- 


A  lurid  fire  burned  in  her  eyes,  and  a 
fierce  expression  passed  over  her  face. 

Mr.  Vandeleur  drew  her  gently  toward 
him,  and,  pressing  her  cheek  to  his,  while 
the  hot  tears  fell  from  his  eyes,  said,  with 
inexpressible  tenderness,  "  Sposa  mia,  will 
not  the  thought  of  my  love  for  you  calm  and 
soften  your  grief  when  I  am  gone  ?  I  un- 
derstand your  suffering ;  I  too  have  passed 
through  it  all ;  but  now  the  anguish  of  it  is 
lifted  from  me  forever.  I  have  not  been  a 


1  good  man ;  the  greater  part  of  my  life  has 

|  been  spent  in  sin  and  sell-gratification,  and 

I  once  1  was  mad  with  the  desire  for  the  life 

:  of  the  man  who  separated  us ;  but  for  him 

j  you  might  have  been  my  wife  years  age,  and 

|  my  child   would  have  died  in  its  iather's 

i  arms.     It  was  a  great  wrong,  and  when  he 

lay   dying   before   me,  for  one   moment   I 

hated  him,  and  would  not  stretch  out  my 

hand  to  save  him ;  but  soon  better  feelings 

came,  and  I  forgave  him  freely  and  fully, 

and  he  died  with  his  head  on  my  breast.     I 

have  gained  the  last  victory  over  self,  1  have 

found  you,  and  you  still  love  me ;   I  have 

made  my  reparation,  as  far  as  it  is  in  human 

power.     There  is  but  one  thing  more  that 

distresses  me,  —  but  one  thing,  my  Mona, 

and  you  can  remedy  that ;  then  I  shall  die 

infinitely  happy." 

"  What  is  it  V  "  she  cried,  "  what  is  it  ?  I 
will  give  every  drop  of  my  heart's  blood  for 
you." 

"  I  only  ask,"  he  said,  folding  her  closer 
to  his  heart,  —  "I  only  ask  that  ycu  will  let 
the  memory  of  my  love  and  suffering  drive 
from  your  heart  every  dark  thought;  that 
you  will  not  murmur  nor  complain  against 
the  power  that  has  taken  me  from  you  after 
this  short  reunion  ;  live  calmly  and  patiently 
as  long  as  God  wills  it,  and  be  assured  al- 
ways that  even  in  heaven  I  shall  be  happier 
if  I  know  my  Mona  tries  on  earth  to  do  as  I 
have  wished." 

"  Oh  ! "  she  sobbed,  "  I  will  try ;  but  you 
cannot,  you  must  not,  leave  me." 

Constance  was  not  prepared  for  such  a 
change  in  Mr.  Vandeleur,  and  when  she  en- 
tered the  room  she  was  so  overcome  by  the 
shock  as  scarcely  to  be  able  to  reply  to  his 
calm  greeting. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come ;  I  feared 
you  would  not  arrive  in  time."  Holding  out 
one  hand,  and  placing  the  other  on  the  head 
of  Mona,  while  he  turned  his  earnest  eyes  to 
Constance,  he  said,  "  This  is  my  wife,  and, 
Mona,  this  is  the  dear  and  gentle  lady  who 
first  taught  me  my  duty  to  you.  If  1  have 
done  aught  of  good  to  my  fellow-men,  if  I 
have  gained  any  conquest  over  self,  it  is  to 
her  I  owe  the  first  impulse.  You  will  al- 
ways love  her,  and  she  will  be  kind  to  you 
for  my  sake." 

Mona  raised  her  wistful  eyes  to  the  gentle 
face  bending  over  her,  and  said,  with  trem- 
bling anxiety,  "  Do  you  think  him  so  very 
ill  ?  O,  tell  me  he  will  not  die  !  " 

"  We  will  hope  for  the  best ;  wewi1!  pray 
to  God  together,"  Constance  replied,  a.«  she 
drew  a  chair  near  the. bed.  "Let  me  watch 
by  him  to-night,  while  you  take  a  little 
rest." 

"  No,  no,"  she  cried,  almost  fiercely ;  "  I 
shall  not  leave  him  a  moment ;  my  place  is 
here  while  he  lives." 
"  Poor  child  ! "  said  the  sickman  with  a  gen- 


WOVEN   OF   MANY   THREADS. 


Ill 


tie  smile,  "  she  has  watched  over  me  day  and 
night,  without  food  or  sleep  ;  but  her  labor 
of  love  will  soon  be  over.  Open  the  blinds 
a  little,  darling,  that  I  may  look  on  the  sea. 
How  calm  and  still  all  is,  after  the  tumult 
of  the  battle  that  has  raged  around  us  !  " 

His  eye  fell  on  the  ruined  fort  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  harbor,  its  walls  blackened 
and  crumbled  by  shot  and  shell. 

"  How  like  the  life  of  man  !  "  he  said.  "  A 
few  days  ago  it  stood  a  strong,  noble  struc- 
ture, defying  wind  and  wave  and  the  rava- 
ges of  time;  towering  in  solitary  grandeur 
above  the  sea  that  now  almost  breaks  over 
its  ruined  walls.  What  nature  hath  spared, 
the  hellish  passions  of  the  human  heart  have 
accomplished.  It  is  fallen,  —  a  wreck,  a 
ghastly  remnant  of  power;  and  I,  lying 
here  and  looking  upon  it  for  the  last  time, 
with  the  waves  of  eternity  almost  flowing 
over  me,  feel  myself  to  be  but  the  wreck  of 
my  own  passions  and  follies. 

"  O,  how  the  past  comes  back  to  me !  — 
those  days  of  golden  opportunity,  of  buoyant 
hopes,  the  desires  and  dreams  of  my  youth 
unfulfilled  in  the  long  years  wantonly  squan- 
dered, until  the  disgust,  the  weariness,  the 
heartache,  the  pain  of  remorse  and  regret, 
gathered  upon  me  a  burden  that  was  once 
heavier  than  I  could  bear;  but,  thank  God, 
it  has  fallen  away  from  me  forever,  and  I 
now  stand  on  the  threshold  of  eternity,  as  I 
once  stood  at  the  dawn  of  life,  eager  and 
longing  to  spring  into  the  unknown.  Con- 
stance, since  the  day  you  pointed  out  to  me 
the  weary  path  of  duty,  stripped  from  false- 
hood the  flimsy  disguise  I  had  called  truth, 
saying,  with  all  the  earnestness  and  fervor 
of  youthful  virtue,  '  Plappiness  begins  with 
self-immolation,'  God  knows  how  I  have 
tried  to  prove  the  truth  of  your  words,  and 
I  trust  it  has  not  all  been  in  vain.  If  I  have 
gained  from  the  Father  of  infinite  goodness 
one  smile  of  approval,  I  am  content  that  my 
labor  is  finished,  —  yes,  content.  To-day, 
when  all  is  ended  for  me,  and  I  am  disinter- 
ested in  the  things  of  earth,  I  speak  with  the 
solemnity  of  one  already  on  the  confines  of 
eternity.  If  it  were  given  to  me  to  return 
to  the  morning  of  my  days,  I  would  not  re- 
trace my  steps,  I  would  not  renew  again  a 
struggle  with  the  world  that  never  has  in 
any  case  given  me  the  victory.  It  is  a  labor 
as  useless  as  Ixion's  or  the  daughters  of  Da- 
naus.  Alas,  no  !  I  am  too  weary ;  I  long  for 
the  calm  rest  of  eternity;  I  have  tried  to 
school  my  heart  and  bend  my  stubborn  will 
to  the  Divine  law,  and  I  must  now  acknowl- 
edge a  superior  justice  and  wisdom  in  all 
this  before  which  I  am  compelled  to  bow. 
In  this  hour  mercifully  all  remorse  and  re- 
gret are  taken  from  me,  and  I  feel  it  sweet 
to  lie  in  the  arms  of  God,  as  a  child  on  its 
mother's  breast,  leaving  him  to  do  whatso- 
ever he  wills." 


\VLiK».  Mona  slept  for  a  few  moments  by 
his  side,  briefly  and  with  much  effort  he  told 
Constance  of  his  future  arrangements  for 
her.  "  I  have  left  her  all  my  persona!  prop- 
erty," he  said,  "excepting  some  jewelry, 
pictures,  and  statuary  at  llelmsfbnl,  which 
I  beg  you  to  accept  as  a  remembrance  of 
one  who,  if  fate  had  permitted,  would  have 
loved  you  with  the  only  love  of  his  life. 
You  will  be  kind  to  this  poor  child  after  I 
am  gone,  and  strive  to  direct  her  sorrow  in 
the  right  channel;  I  fear  for  her;  I  never 
knew  the  strength  of  her  affection  until  now. 
Ah  !  if  I  had  but  made  her  my  wife  before, 
what  a  noble,  beautiful  character  she  would 
have  become,  how  happy  I  might  have  been, 
and  Helmsford  would  not  have  been  without 
a  Vandeleur !  But  there  is  no  one  whom  I 
Avould  rather  leave  its  mistress  than  Lady 
Dinsmore ;  she  is  a  perfect  character,  and 
the  parish  will  find  in  her  a  better  friend 
than  I  have  been."  Smoothing  the  hair  of 
Mona  gently  as  she  slept  on  his  pillow,  he 
said  again,  "  Be  kind  to  her,  and  try  and 
soften  her  grief  by  your  friendship  and  sym- 
pathy. Poor  darling !  I  hope  she  will  find 
some  consolation  in  her  religioi." 

Constance,  with  tearful  eyes,  promised  all 
he  asked.  Then,  with  flushing  anu  trem- 
bling, she  told  him  of  her  love  for  Guido  and 
of  her  engagement.  Mr.  Vandeleur  pressed 
her  hand,  and  said  fervently,  "  I  am  thankful 
you  have  found  happiness  with  another ;  I 
sometimes  feared  I  had  cast  a  shadow  over 
your  life,  and  robbed  you  of  your  trust  in 
humanity." 

"  I  did  suffer  very  much  at  first,"  she 
said  in  a  low  voice ;  "  but  now  I  see  it 
was  all  for  the  best,  —  for  I  never  could 
have  loved  you,"  she  faltered,  "  as  I  love 
Guido." 

"  Yes,  dear,  it  was  all  for  the  best,"  he 
replied,  with  a  little  sadness  in  his  smile. 
"  We  lay  the  axe  to  the  root  of  the  old 
tree,  and  a  new  one  springs  up  in  its 
place." 

He  said  no  more,  but  fell  into  a  revery 
that  seemed  to  be  happy,  because  of  the 
peace  that  brooded  over  his  face. 

Neither  Lady  Dinsmore  nor  Guido  saw 
him  until  the  next  morning;  then  their  in- 
terview was  brief  and  sad  ;  he  recommend- 
ed Mona  earnestly  to  the  love  and  protec- 
tion of  her  foster-brother,  saying,  "  1  know 
that  once  your  heart  was  filled  with  bitter- 
ness against  me,  but  now  the,  pressure  of 
your  hand  tells  me  I  am  forgiven." 

"  Do  not  speak  of  it,"  said  Gr:ido.  gently  ; 
"  I  forgot  my  enmity  long  ago ;  Constance 
taught  me." 

"You  will  bs  mistress  of  Ilelm^ford,"  he 
said,  pressing  with  loeble  fm_vers  the,  hand 
of  Lady  Dinsmore;  '-be  kind  to  my  poor 
people,  kinder  than  I  have  been." 

"Yes,"    she   replied,   weeping,   "I    will 


112 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


strive  to  be  -what  you  would  have  been  if 
God  had  spared  you  longer." 

"Promise  me  one  thing,"  he  continued 
earnestly,  —  "promise  me  that  the  first  heir 
born  to  Helmsford  shall  be  called  Richard 
Vandeleur.  Here  on  my  death-bed  I  -will 
leave  him  my  name,  and  wish  for  him  only 
the  good  in  my  nature  without  the  evil. 
May  his  life  be  more  worthy  of  his  inherit- 
ance than  mine  has  been !  "  He  paused 
from  weakness,  but  after  a  moment  he  said 
again  to  Lady  Dinsmore, "  And  also  promise 
me  to  live  in  the  old  Hall  half  the  year,  and 
speak  of  me  sometimes  to  my  tenantry.  O 
that  I  had  done  more  for  them,  that  my  mem- 
ory might  have  lived  in  their  hearts !  "  and 
then,  drawing  Mona  to  him  with  a  look  of 
love  and  anxiety,  he  placed  her  hand  in 
Lady  Dinsmore's,  saying,  "  Remember  I 
loved  her,  and  she  was  worthy  of  it." 

"  I  will  remember  it,"  she  said,  folding  the 
trembling  weeper  in  her  arms,  and  kissing 
her  tenderly ;  "  she  too  shall  have  a  place  in 
my  heart  with  those  I  already  love." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  murmured  drowsily ; 
"  now  all  is  finished,  I  will  sleep." 

A  few  days  passed,  and  they  all  knew  his 
hours  were  numbered ;  each  one  augmented 
his  weakness,  and  drew  to  the  finest  fibre 
the  thread  on  which  his  life  was  suspended. 
All  united  in  affectionate  care  to  render  his 
last  hours  calm  and  peaceful.  Mona  scarcely 
quitted  his  pillow ;  tender,  eager,  desperate, 
her  strength  was  almost  superhuman  ;  she 
seemed  to  have  overcome  the  weakness  of 
nature  ;  not  for  worlds  would  she  have  lost 
for  one  moment  the  loving  gaze  of  the  dear 
eyes  that  were  always  fixed  upon  her  face. 
One  day  he  felt  a  rain  of  hot  tears  on  his 
forehead,  and,  looking  up,  he  said,  "  My  dar- 
ling, why  do  you  weep  to  see  me  die  ?  I  do 
not  suffer;  let  me  lean  my  head  on  your 
bosom." 

She  raised  him  tenderly,  not  allowing  any 
one  to  assist  her,  and,  laying  her  tear- wet 
cheek  on  his  hair,  she  soothed  him  with 
low  whispers  of  love,  mingled  with  strains 
of  music  he  had  heard  in  other  days. 

He  fell  into  a  light  slumber,  and  a  smile 
of  joy  passed  over  his  face  as  he  murmured 
a  fragment  of  an  old  song  they  had  sung  to- 
gether years  ago  on  the  moonlit  Adriatic. 
All  the  intervening  time  of  sorrow  and  suf- 
fering was  swept  away  forever,  and  now,  dy- 
ing^ on  the  bosom  of  the  woman  he  had  loved 
in  nis  early  youth,  his  soul  floated  back  to 
the  calm  and  sweetness  of  those  old  days, 
and  like  a  child  that  smiles  in  its  sleep  at  an 
angel  vision,  he  gave  his  hand  to  the  great 
Consoler,  and  stepped  unhesitatingly  beyond 
the  portal  of  life. 

It  was  some  time  before  they  knew  he  had 
ceased  to  live,  for  Mona  sat  like  a  statue  re- 

farding  the  immobile  face  long  after  the  spirit 
ad  passed  away.    She  did  not  moan  nor  cry. 


Her  tender,  passionate  grief  seemed  to  have 
ended  with  his  life.  Like  Niobe,  her  face  bore 
the  stony  impress  of  a  fixed  anguish.  With 
a  power  which  none  could  resist,  she  forced 
them  all  to  leave  the  room,  performing  her- 
self the  last  offices  necessary  to  the  poor  clay. 
When  the  limbs  were  composed,  and  the 
quiet  hands  folded  over  the  pulseless  breast, 
she  returned  to  her  old  seat  by  his  side. 
With  her  elbows  on  the,  bed  and  her  hands 
pressed  to  her  temples  she  gazed  in  stony 
silence  upon  the  face  on  which  the  angel  of 
death  had  set  his  seal  of  peace.  Night  and 
day  she  watched  over  him  while  Guido  made 
the  arrangements  necessary  for  the  trans- 
portation of  the  body  to  England. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day,  the 
funeral  procession,  under  a  military  escort, 
followed  by  the  population  of  the  city,  amid 
the  tolling  of  bells  and  firing  of  cannon, 
wended  its  way  to  the  shore,  where  a  ship, 
with  a  black  flag  at  half-mast,  waited  to  re- 
ceive the  body. 

The  shore  was  lined  for  miles  with  men, 
women,  and  children,  all  straining  their 
tearful  eyes' for  a  last  glimpse  of  the  ship,  as 
she  steamed  swiftly  out  of  the  bay,  bearing 
the  remains  of  one  who  in  a  brief  time,  by 
his  deeds  of  benevolence  and  kindness,  had 
won  so  deep  a  place  in  the  affections  of  a 
thousand  poor  hearts. 

"  Madonna  santissima  give  his  soul  a  quick 
journey  to  paradise,"  said  a  woman,  holding 
her  child  up  above  the  crowd,  that  he  might 
see  the  last  flutter  of  the  black  flag.  "  He 
gave  his  life  for  us.  When  shall  another 
noble  heart  like  his  come  among  us  ?  " 

And  so,  followed  by  blessings  and  bene- 
dictions, the  ship  passed  out  of  sight,  lost  be- 
tween the  sky  and  the  sea.  And  more  gen- 
uine and  universal  sorrow  was  felt  for  the 
death  of  Richard  Vandeleur  than  for  all  the 
hundreds  who  had  fallen  in  the  battle. 

Mona,  locked  alone  in  a  room  overlooking 
the  bay,  with  her  cold  hands  clenched  over 
her  forehead,  a  stern,  set  expression,  around 
her  mouth,  and  her  eyes  wide'  and  tearless, 
followed  with  intense  gaze  the  way  the  ship 
had  taken  until  it  grew  a  speck  on  the 
waves,  and  the  darkness  hid  it  from  her 
sight. 

Then,  like  Halcyone  after  her  vision  of 
Ceyx,  she  arose,  pacing  frantically  her  nar- 
row room,  wringing  and  clenching  her  hands, 
tearing  her  hair,  and  calling  upon  the  de- 
parted  by  every  endearing  name,  repeating 
it  over  and  over,  as  though  her  voice  could 
penetrate  the  dull  ear  of  death,  "  The 
grave  shall  not  separate  us  long.  I  will  go 
to  thee.  To  live  without  thee  I  should  be 
more  cruel  to  myself  than  death  has  been 
to  thee." 

The  dark  spell  she  feared  had  indeed  come 
upon  her,  and  nothing  but  the  infinite  power 
and  love  of  God  could  exorcise  it. 


WOVEN   OF   MANY   THREADS. 


113 


CHAPTER   XLL 

THE   CONVENT    OF    THE    SACUE*   CCEUR. 

IN  a  gloomy  stone  cell  for  penitents,  in  the 
convent  of  the  Sacre  Cceur  at  Rome,  sat 
a  nun  on  the  edge  of  a  narrow,  hard  bed. 
By  her  side  was  a  little  wooden  table,  on 
which  lay  a  skull,  a  crucifix,  and  a  knotted 
cord.  A  small  lamp  threw  a  faint  circle  of 
light  around  her  and  revealed  a  ghastly  face, 
large  sunken  eye?,  and  thin  worn  hands,  that 
held  a  rosary  ;  while  with  restless,  nervous 
fingers  she  counted  one  after  another  the 
beads,  muttering,  in  a  hard,  cold  tone,  Pater 
noster  and  Hail  Mary. 

Nearly  three  months  had  passed  since  she 
discovered  Richard  Vandeleur  on  the  battle- 
field of  Castel  Fidardo,  and  what  ravages 
that  brief  time  had  made  in  her  face  and 
figure  !  Every  sign  of  youth  seemed  to  have 
vanished  and  left  in  its  place  a  premature 
old  age,  pitiful  to  look  at.  The  few  locks 
of  hair  that  escaped  from  the  white  bands 
of  her  cap  were  streaked  with  gray ;  the 
skin  was  drawn  over  her  forehead,  leaving 
the  bones  almost  as  visible  as  those  of  the 
skull  at  her  side ;  her  cheeks  were  hollow 
and  haggard ;  her  eyes,  sunken  into  their 
orbits,  burned  with  a  strange  wild  light ;  her 
lips,  parched  and  drawn,  revealed  the  dis- 
colored teeth,  from  which  tho  gums  seemed 
to  have  receded ;  her  long,  emaciated 
fingers  had  the  restless,  writhing  motion  so 
significant  in  those  laboring  under  some 
mental  disease.  From  a  neighboring  tower 
on  the  Janiculum  soundec'  the  hour  of  mid- 
night. Starting  up  and  throwing  the  rosary 
on  the  bed,  she  began  pacing  the  floor  and 
talking  rapidly  to  herself. 

"  It  is  no  use.  it  is  no  use  ;  all  this  fast- 
ing and  penance,  all  the  indulgences,  all 
the  absolution,  will  not  soften  or  purify  my 
heart.  It  is  hard,  hard  as  stone.  1  hate 
every  one  and  everything.  If  they  would 
not  trouble  me;  if  they  would  leave  me  day 
and  night  alone  with  the  memory  of  my 
darling.  I  could  kill  those  who  tell  me  it  is 
a  sin  to  think  of  him.  Padre  Stefano  will 
drive  me  to  madness  with  his  entreaties. 
What  have  I  to  confess  7  Forever  the  same 
thing,  —  that  my  heart  is  filled,  filled  with 
deadly  hate  for  everything  on  the  earth,  and 
everything  in  heaven  but  him.  I  hate  man- 
kind because  one  of  the  wretched  race 
parted  us,  and  I  hate  God  because  when  I 
found  him  he  would  not  spare  him  to  me, 
although  I  prayed  as  none  ever  prayed  be- 
fore, •  although  I  implored  the  Madonna 
every  moment  while  I  bent  over  him,  watch- 
ing the  life  go  away  that  I  had  ho  power  to 
keep.  And  Padre  Stefano  tells  me  God  is 
merciful  and  the  Madonna  all  love,  and  that 
she  answers  our  prayers  when  we  ask  for 
her  intercession.  She  has  never  heard  me. 
15 


The  hosts  of  heaven  were  deaf  when  1  cried. 
1  thought  my  agony  would  have  moved  the. 
pity  of  the  Father  on  his  throne,  but  he  has 
no  mercy  for  me.  They  have  all  eon-pired, 
the  powers  of  heaven  and  earth,  to  drive 
me  to  eternal  ruin.  O,"  she  cried,  clamping 
Jr.T  h;mds  above  her  head  with  an  imploring 
gesture,  "my  darling,  my  darling!  it'  it 
were  not  for  the  fear  of  being  shut  out  from 
thee  forever,  I  would  end  this  qui<-kly  and 
come  to  thee.  I  believe  this  suH'erini:  will 
atone  for  my  sins,  and  that  after  death  (iod 
will  open  the  door  and  let  me  creep  in,  even 
to  thy  feet." 

Then,  throwing  herself  on  her  knees  be- 
fore the  crucifix,  she  poured  out  a  torrent  of 
vehement,  passionate  prayers,  that  seemed 
to  exhaust  the  wasted  body,  for  the  lar_re 
drops  of  sweat  stood  on  her  forehead,  and 
she  leaned,  panting  for  breath,  against  the 
edge  of  the  stone  shelf  that  served  fora  bed. 
Gradually  the  eyes  closed,  and  the  weary 
head  fell  forward.  She  slept,  but  only  a 
moment,  for  she  started  up  with  a  cry,  and, 
seizing  the  knotted  cord,  scourged  herself 
until  her  lips  grew  livid  with  pain.  Then, 
sinking  back  again  on  her  bed,  she  mur- 
mured, "Is  this  wasted  and  bleeding  body 
the  thin";  he  loved  and  worshipped  once? 
He  would  not  let  the  winds  of  heaven  visit 
me  too  roughly,  and  now  I  cannot  make  my- 
self suffer  enough  to  deaden  the  agony  of 
my  soul.  But  I  shall  leave  this  poor  shell 
behind  mo.  Happily  I  shall  not  take  it  into 
his  presence.  Ah !  would  he  recognize  in 
me  now  the  Mona  he  once  loved  1 " 

Going  near  the  light,  she  drew  from  her 
bosom  a  little  bag  of  silk,  and,  taking  from  it 
a  folded  paper,  she  opened  it,  and  gazed  with 
intense  fondness  on  two  locks  of  hair,  —  one 
brown  and  slightly  streaked  with  gray  ;  the 
other  of  a  darker  hue,  but  soft  and  fine  as  the 
threads  of  a  silkworm. 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  "  my  precious  treasure !  I 
have  not  seen  thee  for  three  days  because 
Sister  Agatha  advised  me  to  deny  myself 
that  gratification  and  it  would  gain  for  me 
an  indulgence ;  but  it  is  folly  to  promise  me 
such  impossibilities,  to  cheat  my  poor  soul 
out  of  a  little  happiness."  She  pressed  the 
two  curls  to  her  lips,  cheek,  and  brow,  and 
then,  putting  them  back  reverently  in  their 
silken  cover,  she  concealed  them  under  the 
folds  of  her  serge  dress. 

And  so  the  long  night  wore  away  to  the 
wretched  woman.  Sometimes  a  few  mo- 
ments of  broken  sleep,  then  restless  pacing 
to  and  fro,  or  vehement  praye>  that  surely 
must  have  pierced  the  ears  of  the  Almighty 
as  it  ascended  like  a  wail  of  anguish  through 
the  silent  air. 

For  several  days  after  the  death  of  Rich 

ard  Vandeleur,  Lady  Dinsmore,  Constance, 

!  and  Giu'do  devoted  themselves  with  untiring 

1  patience  to  the  half-insane  creature.     But 


114 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


rJl  their  efforts  to  win  her  back  to  the  in- 
t(  Tests  of  life  were  unavailing.  The  only 
desire  she  ever  expressed  was  to  leave 
Ancona,  where  everything  reminded  hei  too 
forcibly  of  the  terrible  scene  through  which 
she  had  passed.  Lady  Dinsmore  at  once 
acted  upon  this,  and  as  it  was  of  no  interest 
to  Mona  where  she  went,  they  all  turned 
their  faces  toward  Rome.  She  met  her 
parents  with  the  utmost  indifference,  scarcely 
recognizing  them,  and  utterty  refusing  to 
pass  one  night  under  their  roof.  The  only 
place  of  refuge  she  desired  was  the  walls  of 
a  convent ;  and  so  they  took  her  directly  to 
the  Sacre  Cceur,  that  she  might  be  near 
Sister  Agatha 

They  often  visited  her,  but  came  away 
more  shocked  each  time  by  the  terrible  rav- 
ages grief  had  made  upon  her. 

Filomena  would  wring  her  hands  and 
say  to  Sister  Agatha,  with  a  burst  of  tears, 
"1  have  found  her,  but  only  to  lose  her 
again  in  a  more  horrible  manner.  If  some 
relief  does  not  come  to  her  she  will  be  Eiad, 
—  but  I  am  punished,  I  am  punished  justly." 
It  was  evident  remorse  for  some  hidden  sin 
was  preying  upon  her  mind,  which  she  either 
had  not  the  courage  or  the  desire  to  confess. 

One  lovely  morning  Sister  Agatha  entered 
the  cell  of  Mona,  and  found  her,  as  usual, 
pacing  restlessly  its  narrow  limits.  "  Come," 
she  said,  putting  her  arm  around  the  poor 
mourner,  and  gently  drawing  her  down  by 
her  side,    "come  and  rest  here  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  we  will  go  into  the  garden 
for  a  little  while      The  day  is  so  lovely,  the  i 
sky  so  bluev   the    sun   so  bright    ana   the  j 
birds  sing  so  joyously.     Let  the  great  loving  j 
heart  of  Nature  soothe  and  heal  your  suffer- ; 
ing  soul.     You  can   pray  to  God  as  well ! 
under  the  blue  dome  of  heaven  as  here  in  j 
this  narrow  cell.5' 

"  No,  no,"  she  replied,  shuddering,  and 
drawing  away  from  the  nun's  encircling  arm,  ; 
"  I  hate  the  day.  I  hate  the  sun  and  the 
songs  oi  birds.  My  soul  is  dark  ;  all  is  dark 
within  me.  I  love  not  the  great  heart  of 
Nature,  it  does  not  beat  for  me." 

"  My  poor  child,"  said  Sister  Agatha,  sol- 
emnly, "  you  are  selfish  in  your  grisf,  you 
are  wilfully  blind  to  the  consolation  of  your 
religion.  Believe  me,  there  is  no  sorrow 
Christ  cannot  cure.  You  turn  away  from 
his  pure  pitying  love,  and  cling  to  the  mem- 
ory ot  a  sinner." 

"  Hush ! "  she  cried,  while  a  terrible  look 
shot  from  her  eyes.  "  do  not  call  him  a  sin- 
ner. He  died  in  the  endeavor  to  save  his 
enemy.  What  more  did  Christ  do  than 
that?  It  is  useless  labor  to  talk  to  me. 
What  do  you  know  of  joy  or  sorrow,  —  you 
who  have  never  loved  " 

A  furtivo  flush  passed  over  the  patient 
.ised  tace  ot  Sister  Agatha,  as  ehe  replied  : 
"  I  have  sufk'ted  eveu  as  you  suffer,  and  I 


can  pity  you  When  1  outwardly  left  the 
world  and  hid  my  young-  suffering  life  in  a 
convent,  I  did  not  put  away  the  passion  and 
desire  of  a  liuman  heart.  I  could  not  tear 
at  once  from  my  soul  all  the  tender  ioncdno- 
for  love  and  the  glad  sweet  liie  1  had  left. 

"  There  were  three  of  us,  —  my  sister,  my 
brother,  and  myself.  We  came  of  a  noble 
but  impoverished  family.  It  was  early  de- 
cided that  my  sister,  who  was  the  eldest, 
should  marry,  and  I  should  take  vows,  as 
our  scanty  means  were  only  sufficient  to 
dower  one.  The  husband  selected  for  my 
sister  was  a  young  man  who  had  grown  up 
in  our  society.  I  cannot  tell  jou  when  I 
loved  him.  I  always  loved  him"  My  moth- 
er died  early ;  my  father  was  a  stern,  proud 
man.  There  was  no  appeal,  our  fates  were 
fixed  by  our  parents.  I  saw  him  married  to 
my  sister,  and  then  I  hid  my  broken  heart 
in  a  living  tomb.  Not  long  after  her  mar- 
riage my  sister  died.  Then  I  might  have 
been  his  wife,  but  my  vows  separated  us  for- 
ever. Mercifully  that  temptation  was  soon 
over ;  he  died  a  year  after  his  wife.  But  he 
did  not  die  in  my  arms ;  that  consolation 
was  denied  me.  1  was  striving  to  find  peace 
in  our  blessed  religion.  As  I  told  you,  when 
I  left  the  world  I  did  not  leave  with  ii  the 
unquiet,  restless  heart,  the  Icnping  and 
pining  for  the  love  I  had  known.  My  stern, 
cold  life  was  a  poor  substitute  for  the  bright 
happy  home  1  had  left.  Not  long  alter,  my 
father  died ;  then  my  brother  followed  him 
(o  the  silent  land,  —  my  brother  whom  I 
loved,  and  my  last  tie  to  earth.  I  could  not 
tee  him,  I  could  not  close  his  eyes,  I  could 
not  receive  his  farewell.  He  died  in  Naples, 
and  only  after  seme  days  the  sad  news  came 
to  me  that  he  was  no  more.  It  was  not  un- 
til every  tie  and  idol  was  rent  away,  and  I 
stood  alone  before  Cod,  that  I  began  to 
lean  upon  him.  I  need  not  tell  you  of  the 
struggles,  the  prayers  and  penances,  the 
days  and  nights  of  sorrow,  that  filled  up  the 
sum  of  my  life.  It  was  labor,  constant,  un- 
remitting labor  (or  others,  that  healed,  and 
at  last  cured,  my  wounds.  Or,  perhaps,  I 
should  say,  it  was  because  at  that  time  1  had 
something  to  love ;  for  Guido  was  sent  to 
the  hospital,  and  (o  me  he  was  an  angel  vis- 
itant. I  took  him  into  my  inmost  heart. 
What  a  comfort  the  child  was  to  me !  My 
interest  in  him  has  always  been  something 
to  live  for.  God  sends  us  the  cure  we  most 
need.  He  saw  an  affection  for  some  living 
thing  was  necessary  to  soften  my  nature  and 
lead  me  to  him,  so  he  gave  me  that  child. 
Through  him  I  was  enabled  to  renew  niy  in- 
terest in  life,  and  was  led  patiently  to  strive 
for  an  inheritance  beyond." 

When  she  had  finished,  Mona  raised  her 
hollow  eyes,  and  looked  searchingly  into  the 
face  of  her  companion. 

'•'  And  is  it  possible  thou  hast  so  outlived 


WOVEN    OF  MANY   THREADS. 


115 


such  sorrow  that  thou  canst  speak  calmly  of 
it?  No,  no!  my  nature  is  not  like  thine. 
Such  hearts  as  mine  break,  they  do  not  bend. 
Nothing  but  death  can  heal  my  sorrow. 
Time  only  augments  it.  I  shall  never  again 
smile  in  peace  until  the  M'hite  angel  touches 
me  with  his  cold  finger  and  stills  my  pulse 
forever.  Some  one  comes,"  she  said,  as 
steps  approached  the  door.  "  It  is  Padre 
Stefano,  and  I  hate  him;  he  would  teach 
me  to  be  faithless  to  Riccardo's  memory." 

But  it  was  not  Padre  Stefano ;  it  was 
Filornena.  She  entered  nervously  and  sadly. 
Going  toward  her  daughter,  she  embraced 
her  and  said,  "  Cam  fiylia,  the  doctor  has 
come,  wilt  thou  see  him?" 

"  No,"  she  replied,  sternly,  "  I  will  not 
see  him.  I  am  not  sick  in  body,  and  who 
can  cure  the  malady  of  the  soul  ?  No,  I  will 
not  see  him.  Why  dost  thou  trouble  me, 
mad  re  mia  ?  " 

Filomena  clasped  her  hands  in  despair, 
and  said,  with  real  anguish  in  her  voice, 
"  The  child  will  not  save  herself,  neither 
•will  she  suffer  us  to  help  her." 

At  that  moment  Padre  Stefano  entered. 
Mona  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  re- 
mained in  stubborn  silence. 

"  Hast  thou  scourged  thyself,  fasted,  and 
said  thy  fifty  paternosters,  my  daughter  ?  " 

Mona  replied  not. 

"  Hast  thou  tried  to  drive  from  thy  heart 
the  memory  of  a  sinner  ?  Hast  thou  cen- 
tred all  thy  thoughts  on  the  suffering  son 
of  God  ?  Hast  thou  worn  on  thy  breast  the 
relic  of  San  Francesco  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  starting  up,  "  not  the 
relic  of  San  Francesco,  but  another  infinite- 
ly more  precious.  Wilt  thou  see  it?  "  and 
she  drew  from  her  breast,  with  a  defiant  ex- 
pression, the  little  silken  bag.  They  all 
gathered  around  her  in  silent  expectation, 
but  started  back  in  horror  when  they  saw 
the  two  locks  of  hair. 

"  There,"  she  cried,  "  there  are  my  relics, 
more  precious  to  me  than  saint's  or  Sav- 
iour's." 

"  Daughter,  daughter,"  said  the  priest, 
sternly,  "  thou  blasphemesfc.  I  fear  neither 
pr.iyer  aor  penance  can  atone  for  such  sin. 
Give  me  this  object  of  idolatry,  cast  it  from 
tlvee  as  th  >;i  wouldst  a  loathsome  thing;  it  is 
that  which  keeps  thy  soul  from  God,"  and 
as  he  spoke  ha  advanced  to  take  it  from  her 
hand. 

With  a  piercing  shriek  she  pressed  it  to 
her  breast,  crying,  "  Do  not  touch  me !  do 
not  touch  this  sacred  relic,  the  only  thing  I 
have  of  him  !  No,  no,  let  God  curse  me,  but 
I  will  not  giye  it  up." 

An  ui'ly  expression  passed  over  the  "ace 
of  Padre  Stefano  as  he  muttered,  "  She  is 
incorrigible.  She  merits  excommunication." 

"  Pazienza,  //m/re  ?«(o,"said  Sister  Agatha, 
gently.  "  The  poor  soul  is  half  mad  with 


suffering,  and  it  is  only  love  and  kindness 
that  ran  win  her  i^ack  to  the  fold.  Lc.ive 
her  to  me.  I  soothe  her,  but  you  and  Filo- 
mena only  irrita* 

The  priest  left  the  cell  with  an  angry 
countenance,  and  soon  after  Filomena  Ibl- 
lowed.  Again  Sister  Agatha  drew  the  wo- 
man to  her  side,  and  led  her  to  talk  of  those 
hours  of  happiness  she  had  known  in  the 
morning  of  her  love.  She  smoothed  and 
kissed  the  silken  ring  of  hair,  gently  direct- 
ing her  thoughts  to  the  innocent  little  cherub 
who  waited  tor  her  in  the  land  of  the  blest. 
j  Gradually  she  became  calm,  and  an  hour 
after,  when  Sister  Agatha  lefl  her,  she  was 
sleeping  peacefully. 

Filomena  was  waiting  in  the  corridor,  and 
when  the  nun  appeared,  she  clasped  her 
hands  and  said  with  eager  excitement,  "  Let 
me  speak  to  you  alone,  I  have  something 
to  confess." 

"  Why  do  yoir  not  go  to  your  confessor  ?  " 
inquired  the  nun. 

"  Because  I  would  rather  speak  to  you, 
I  would  rather  ask  your  advice ;  you  are  a 
woman,  and  can  understand  me  better.  God 
is  angry,  and  he  /rill  not  forgive  me  until  I 
have  made  some  compensation  for  a  wrong 
I  have  committed." 

She  remained  closeted  lon<*  with  Sister 
Agatha,  and  when  she  left  the  room  her 
eyes  were  red  and  swollen  with  much  weep- 
ing, but  her  manner  was  calmer  and  more 
confident.  At  parting,  Sister  Agatha  said, 
"  I  fear  it  is  too  late,  but  we  will  do  all  that 
is  possible  to  discover  the  person." 

A  few  days  after.  Guido  held  a  long  con- 
ference with  Sister  Agatha,  and  when  he 
left  her  room  his  face  was  very  happy,  as 
the  face  of  one  who  has  just  known  the  ful- 
filment of  a  long-cherished  wish.  He  went 
directly  to  the  cell  of  Mona,  for  as  her  foster- 
brother  he  had  the  privilege  of  sec-ing  her 
at  any  time.  He  found  her  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed,  her  head  bent,  and  her 
hands  clasped  with  an  air  of  the  utmost 
dejection.  She  looked  up  when  he  entered, 
and  her  face  lighted  a  little. 

"  Come  sta,  sorella  mia  ? "  he  inquired, 
with  his  usual  sweetness,  as  he  drew  a  bench 
near  her,  and  took  her  wasted  hand  in  his. 

She  sighed  wearily   and  replied,  "  The 
same,  always  the  same,  Guido." 
•  "  Why  do  you  stay  in  this  gloomy  cell  ? 
A  room  lighted  and  more  cheerful  would 
be  less  depressing." 

''  No,  no,"  —  with  a  movement  of  impa- 
tience. "The  light  huris  me,  I  am  better  in 
gloom  and  darkness." 

"  Do  you  ever  think,  earn  mia,  of  those 
old  days  when  we  played  together  in  the 
garden  at  Santo  Spirito?"  he  said  Mittlv. 
"  It  was  lung  ago,  but  they  were  happy  days, 
—  were  they  not  ?  " 

"  I  have  forgotten,"  she  replied,  with  in- 


116 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


difference ;  "  I  only  remember  the  hours  I 
passed  with  him ;  all  else  is  a  blank." 

"  Tell  me  something  of  him ;  you  have 
never  told  me  of  the  time  you  passed  with 
him." 

Her  face  softened  as  she  recounted,  almost 
minutely,  the  history  of  the  sweet  peaceful 
hours  that  she  had  lived  with  him,  believing 
herself  to  have  been  his  wife  ;  for  she  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  the  revelation  that  parted 
them,  and  always  spoke  of  him  as  marito 
mio.  With  gentle  thoughtfulness  Guido  led 
her  to  speak  of  the  scenes  that  would  soften 
her  heart,  thinking  all  the  while  if  she  would 
but  weep  she  might  be  saved. 

"And  in  those  days  you  always  desired 
to  please  him  you  loved,  did  you  not  ?  " 

"  O  yes  i     1  obeyed  his  slightest  wish." 

"  Then  why  have  you  not  obeyed  the  wish 
he  expressed*  when  he  lay  dying  in  your 
arms  ?  " 

"  What  wish  ?  "  she  said,  vaguely.  "  I  do 
not  know.  J  do  not  remember." 

"  The  wish  that  the  memory  of  his  love 
should  make  you  happy  even  after  he  had 
left  you." 

"  Happy  ! "  she  repeated  ;  "  how  can  I  be 
happy  when  he  is  dead  ?  " 

"  Remember  how  he  loved  you,  how  kind 
and  gentle  he  was.  He  would  not  like  to 
see  his  darling  so  hard  and  cold.  He  would 
rather  she  would  weep  tender  tears,  remem- 
bering always  his  love,  and  thinking  always 
of  him  as  a  happy  spirit  in  paradise." 

"  I  cannot  weep,"  she  said  in  softer  tones. 
"  O  Guido  !  my  brain  is  dry  and  burning. 
Tears  would  cool  and  refresh  me,  but  I  can- 
not weep." 

"  Listen,  my  sister ;  do  you  know  that, 
though  you  cannot  see  him,  your  beloved 
is  ever  near  you  ?  It  is  my  belief  that  the 
spirits  of  our  precious  dead  linger  around 
us  always,  until  our  freed  souls  join  theirs  ; 
then  together  we  take  our  flight,  to  the  para- 
dise of  the  blest." 

A  dimness  passed  over  her  eyes,  and  her 
lips  quivered  as  she  said  with  eagerness, 
"  Do  you  think  he  is  near  me  ?  and  does  he 
know  what  I  suffer  ?  If  so,  why  does  he  not 
comfort  me  ?  " 

"  Mona,"  replied  Guido,  solemnly,  "  you 
repel  him  ;  you  drive  him  from  you  by  your 
hardness  an  stubborn  grief.  In  life*  he 
would  not  have  loved  such  a  nature ;  and 
now  his  spirit,  made  more  gentle  and  patient 
by  the  love  of  God  and  the  light  of  eternity, 
finds  no  sympathy,  no  fellowship,  with  your 
dark  thoughts.  Try  to  be  angelic  as  he  is, 
and  you  will  understand  and  know  he  is  near 
you." 

"  O  Guido,  Guido  1 "  f  he  cried,  clasping 
her  hands,  while  her  whole  being  trembled 
with  a  new  emotion,  "  I  bless  you  for  such  a 
hope.  It  may  be  my  salvation." 

Guido  felt  that  then  was  the  moment  to 


work  his  charm.  Whether  by  the  power  of 
illusion  or  the  mercy  of  God,  his  only  desire 
was  to  lead  this  poor  wandering  soul  to  the 
light.  Fixing  his  soft  eyes  upon  her,  ten- 
der with  the  yearning  pity  of  his  soul,  and 
concentrating  all  the  sweetness  and  pathos 
possible  in  his  marvellous  voice,  he  sang 
the  song  that  Richard  Vandeleur  had  best 
loved,  a  few  notes  of  which  had  trembled  on 
his  lips  as  his  soul  took  its  flight. 

It  was  strange  to  watch  the  varying  ex- 
pressions that  passed  over  her  face  as  the 
power  of  light  and  darkness  struggled  to- 
gether for  the  victory.  But  the  demons 
were  subdued  and  the  Furies  wept  when 
Orpheus  sang  in  the  Stygian  realm ;  and 
now,  as  the  waves  of  sound  arose  and  floated 
around  her,  the  dews  of  emotion  gathered 
and  fell  in  a  rain  of  tears  oVer  her  pale 
cheeks  and  burning  hands. 

Guido  bent  his  knee  before  the  crucifix  a 
moment  in  silent  prayer,  and  then  went  out, 
leaving  her  to  weep  alone. 


CHAPTER   XLIL 


NEITHER   POVERTY  NOR   SHAME. 


was  great  astonishment  expressed 
JL  in  society  when  it  was  known  that  Mrs. 
Tremaine  was  the  affianced  wife  of  Mr.  Car- 
negie. 

Mrs.  Parlby  shook  her  head  dolorously, 
and  said,  "  What  a  pity  for  such  a  nice  man 
to  sacrifice  himself  so  completely  !  "  And 
many  of  her  disciples  remarked  with  sugges- 
tive ncds  and  grimaces,  "  What  a  fool  a 
man  must  be  to  marry  a  woman  who  has 
flirted  with  the  Prince  Conti  !  If  Carnegie 
does  not  want  a  scandal,  he  had  better  not 
allow  her  to  remain  in  Rome  this  winter. 
Of  course  she  does  not  love  him.  Her  en- 
gagement is  only  a  protection  for  her  repu- 
tation. She  will  carry  on  the  same  disgrace- 
ful intrigue  as  before." 

These  remarks  may  have  been  true  t  some 
extent,  though  vulgarly  expressed.  But  in 
vain  the  Argus  eyes  of  society  watched  her, 
and  could  discover  nothing.  Slander,  like 
the  unsatisfied  maw  of  Erisicthon,  prowled 
about  for  something  to  appease  the  craving 
of  its  terrible  appetite,  but  Mrs.  Tremaine 
furnished  nothing.  Calm,  serene,  and  more 
lovely  than  ever  because  of  the  slight  veil 
sentiment,  as  the  romantic  called  it,  threw 
over  her  dazzling  beauty,  she  was  always 
with  Mr.  Carnegie,  and  a  more  undemon- 
strative, self-sustained  lover  never  pleased 
the  good  taste  of  exacting  Madame  Eti- 
quette. Helen  met  the  Prince  Conti  when 
it  was  unavoidable,  but  with  a  certain  man- 
ner which  seemed  to  say,  "  Thus  far  shalt 
thou  come,  but  no  farther."  At  first  he  had 


WOVEN  OF  MANY  THREADS. 


117 


noi  believed  it  when  she  said  "  All  is  over 
betiveea  us  forever."  But  now  the  truth 
bagan  to  dawn  upon  him.  Wounded  van- 
ity, and  perhaps  the  loss  of  the  truest  love 
he  had  ever  known,  mingled  with  a  sense  of 
defeat,  gnawed  at  his  very  heart  with  disap- 
pointment, regret,  and  remorse,  that  made 
him  but  the  semblance  of  his  proud,  impe- 
rious self.  All  noticed  the  change,  and  those 
who  had  suffered  some  pangs  caused  by  his 
manly  beauty  exulted  silently  that  now  the 
tables  were  turned,  and  the  destroying  angel 
was  being  himself  destroyed  and  consumed 
by  the  ardent  flame  the  mischievous  little  god 
had  kindled  in  his  hitherto  obdurate  heart. 

"  Ah !  he  is  really  in  love  now,"  they  said. 
"  Bravo  !  La  bella  bionda  has  revenged  our 
wrongs.  He  has  walked  over  many  a  heart 
and  crushed  it  under  his  proud  foot.  Let 
him  suffer  a  little  ;  it  will  do  him  good." 

And  so  the  tide  turned  in  favor  of  Mrs. 
Tremaine,  who  went  on  her  own  way  proud- 
ly and  serenely,  sufficiently  employed  in 
wearing  her  mask  in  a  way  to  hide  her  real 
feelings,  and  in  hushing  and  subduing  the 
clamorous  cries  of  her  heart,  so  that  the 
world  around  her  might  not  suspect  that  she 
was  acting  a  part.  Mr.  Carnegie  was  quietly 
happy,  contented  to  wait,  believing  that 
when  the  old  love  had  died  a  natural  death, 
Phoenix-like,  a  new  would  spring  from  its 
ashes. 

Ludy  Dinsmore  had  often  wondered  how 
society  would  receive  Constance  when  it 
knew  she  was  the  affianced  wife  of  one 
against  whom,  in  spite  of  his  talents  and 
noble  life,  it  had  raised  its  unjust  barriers. 
Sometimes  she  was  a  little  anxious,  fearing 
Constance  might  be  wounded  by  imperti- 
nence or  coldness ;  but  when  she  saw  how 
indifferent  the  parties  most  concerned  were, 
she  let  matters  take  their  course,  giving 
herself  no  further  uneasiness. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  season  a  clique 
headed  by  Mrs.  Parlby,  who  had  never  for- 
given Guido,  and  a  few  other  parvenus,  de- 
cided to  place  its  ban  on  the  gentle  girl 
who  had  listened  to  the  voice  of  affection 
rather  than  pride.  The  manner  in  which 
they  showed  their  petty  intention  was  by 
no  longer  including  Constance  and  Guido 
in  their  invitations  to  balls  and  assemblies 
where  the  attendance  of  Lady  Dinsmore  and 
her  daughter  was  solicited. 

"  Why  do  you  refuse  so  many  invitations 
this  winter,  mamma  ?  "  inquired  Florence,  a 
little  pettishly,  for  Lady  Dinsmore  invariably 
sent  a  regret  when  Constance  and  Guido 
were  not  included. 

"My  dear,  you  forget  I  am  wearing 
mourning  for  poor  Mr.  Vandeleur,  and  I  do 
not  wish  to  go  much  into  society." 

"  O  mamma,  he  was  only  a  second  or 
third  cousin,  and  no  one  wears  deep  mourn- 
ing for  such  distant  relatives." 


"Nevermind,  my  darling,  he  was  one  of 
our  family,  and  I  choose  to  respect  his  mem- 
ory." 

Fitzhaven,  young,  immensely  rich,  and 
noble,  was  an  excellent  fish  lor  aspiring 
mammas  to  angle  after.  But,  strange  : 
all  their  seductions  were  in  vain,  ibr  he 
never  appeared  in  society  except  in  company 
with  Lad\-  Dinsmore  and  her  daughter.  Be- 
fore half  the  season  was  over  this  disinter- 
ested clique  began  to  discover  they  had 
made  a  terrible  mistake,  for  the  rank  and 
wealth  of  Lady  Dinsmore  gave  her  • 
into  society  they  dared  not  aspire  to;  so  by 
banishing  a  poor  Italian  maestro  and  an  un- 
pretending girl  they  had  lost  the  acquaint- 
ance of  the  most  eligible  of  the  English 
nobility  in  Rome. 

Guido  was  aware  of  all  this,  and  secretly 
grieved  a  little,  but  said  nothing  to  Con- 
stance, who  was  so  happy  and  contented  in 
his  love,  that,  if  she  noticed  it,  it  never 
caused  her  a  pang. 

"  Dear  noble  heart,"  he  often  thought, 
looking  at  her  with  adoring  eyes,  "I 
wish  I  were  a  king  on  a  throne  for  her 
sake." 

Sometimes  he  did  speak  to  Lady  Dins- 
more  of  the  change  in  society.  She  would 
smile,  and  say  gently,  "Never  mind,  my  dear 
boy,  it  will  be  differ,  nt  in  England.  There 
the  history  of  your  birth  will  not  be  gi  n- 
erally  known.  I  shall  see  you  yet  in  a  posi- 
tion none  will  despise." 

One  morning  Lady  Dinsmore  sat  alone 
in  her  drawing-room.  Florence  had  gone 
to  ride  with  Air.  Carnegie  and  Mrs.  Tre- 
maine. A  servant  brought  her  a  liote ;  she 
opened  it  and  read :  — 

"DEAR  LADY  DINSMORE,  —  Shall  you 
be  alone  at  five  o'clock  ?  I  wish  to  talk 
with  you  on  a  matter  of  importance.  May  I 
come  to  you  at  that  hour  ? 

"  GUIDO." 

"  What  can  it  be  ?  "  she  thought,  as  she 
hastily  wrote  an  answer,  which  she  gave  to 
the  servant,  who  immediately  left  the  room. 
At  that  moment  the  thought  occurred  to  her 
to  tell  him  to  come  directly,  as  by  five  o'clock 
her  daughter  would  have  returned,  or  she 
might  have  visitors.  Hastening  after  the 
servant  to  change  the  reply,  she  opened  the 
door  jusfras  he  was  giving  it  into  thi'  hand 
of  a  respectable-!ooking,wi>ll-;hvssed  woman. 
It  was  Filomena,  who  had  brought  (luido's 
note.  Lady  Dinsmore  uttered  an  exclama- 
tion of  surprise,  and  desired  her  to  enter  the 
drawing-room.  When  she  had  closed  the 
dour  against  the  curiosity  of  the  fo, 
she  directed  Filomena  to  sit  dov.-n,  and, 
drawing  her  arm-chair  near  her.  I 

:;•.(!  str:ulily  at    tin.1   ml   rtain  on  the 
woman's  ii'e:-.  • 

Lady  Dinsmorc  was  very  pale,  and  her 


118 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


voice  shook  as  she  said,  "  Filomena,  do  you 
remember  me  ?  " 

"  No,  Signora  mia,"  she  replied,  a  little 
doubtfully,  ';  I  think  I  have  never  seen  you 
before." 

"  Do  you  not  remember  the  poor  English 
girl  you  nursed  once  through  a  long  illness, 
and  whose  baby  died  in  your  arms  ?  " 

"  0  Dio  mio  !  "  she  cried.  "  Yes,  I  remem- 
ber her  too  well.  I  would  search  the  world 
over  to  find  her.  Do  you  know  her  ?  Can 
you  tell  me  where  she  is  ?  " 

"  I  am  she,"  replied  Lady  Dinsmore,  with 
quivering  voice  and  tearful  eyes ;  for  the 
sight  of  this  woman,  whose  not  unkind  face 
with  its  red  stain  had  bent  over  her  hour  af- 
ter hour  of  her  weary  convalescence,  brought 
back  too  vividly  many  painful  memories. 

Filomena  passed  her  hand  over  her  eyes 
as  if  to  clear  her  vision,  and  then  looked  with 
an  intense  scrutiny  into  the  pale  face  before 
her.  "  It  cannot  be  the  same,"  she  said,  "  it 
cannot  be !  But  I  forget,  it  was  so  long 
ago,  and  time  changes  us  all.  Are  you  in- 
deed the  same  ?  Do  not  deceive  me." 

"  1  am  the  same,"  replied. Lady  Dinsmore, 
with  a  sudden  pulsation  of  the  heart.  "  But 
why  are  you  so  excited  ?  " 

"  O  my  lady  1  "  she  cried,  falling  on  her 
knees  and  clasping  her  hands,  "  I  have  a 
confession  to  make  to  you,  a  strange  con- 
fession ;  but  first  promise  me  you  will  forgive 
me,  and  I  will  tell  you  all." 

"  Certainly,  I  will  forgive  you,  my  poor 
woman ;  only  tell  me,  do  not  keep  me  in 
suspense,"  she  said,  struggling  to  maintain 
her  composure. 

"  O  Signora  !  your  child  did  not  die  ;  I 
deceived  you,  he  did  not  die." 

"  Did  not  die,"  she  echoed,  in  a  voice 
between  a  cry  and  a  prayer.  "  Oh !  tell  me, 
does  he  live  now  2  " 

"  Ye*,  he  lives." 

"  Where  is  he  ?     Who  is  he  ?  " 

"  He  is  the  maestro,  Signor  Guido." 

"  O  Guido,  my  child !  "  she  cried,  raising 
her  eyes  beaming  with  gratitude,  "  my  heart 
knew  you  and  acknowledged  you  the  first 
moment  I  saw  you.  Thank  God  that  in 
spite  of  time  and  mystery  my  child  still 
lives."  Then,  controlling  her  rapture,  she 
said  more  calmly,  "  My  good  woman,  are 
you  prepared  to  prove  this  ?  Are  you  sure 
there  is  no  mistake  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure,"  replied  Filomena.  "  I  have 
every  proof.  But  listen,  Signora  mia,  and  I 
will  tell  you  all  the  story.  After  you  were 
taken  so  ill  with  fever  you  were  unable  to 
nurse  the  child.  The  doctor  ordererl  a  wet- 
nurse,  and  I  was  the  one  chosen.  My  only 
child,  a  boy,  was  seven  days  old  when  I 
went  to  you.  He  *as  a  lovely  child,  but  so 
delicate  and  small,  he  seemed  no  older  than 
the  new-born  babe.  They  looked  much 
alike,  and  sometimes  only  for  the  dress  1 


could  scarcely  tell  one  from  the  other.  I 
had  lost  three ;  my  poor  Benedetto  was  very 
miserable  because  they  all  died,  and  when 
this  little  thing  was  born  our  hearts  were 
bound  up  in  it.  But  alas !  we  were  very 
poor,  so  poor  that  I  was  obliged  to  go  into 
service  to  get  food  for  myself  to  nouri.-h  my 
child.  It  was  sick  and  very  fretful,  crying 
almost  constantly.  In  fact,  it  occupied  to 
much  of  my  time  that  I  could  neither  attend 
to  you  nor  nurse  your  child  properly.  Then 
the  doctor  told  me  I  must  send  my  baby  to 
the  hospital  or  leave  my  situation.  0  Sig- 
nora !  it  was  a  dreadful  trial  for  me.  I  loved 
this  poor  little  feeble  sick  thing,  and  I  could 
not  bear  to  send  it  away  from  me.  Then 
the  thought  entered  my  mind  to  send  your 
child  instead,  and  keep  mine  with  me.  You 
were  unconscious  and  would  never  knoAv  it, 
and  I  thought  in  all  probability  you  would 
die,  and  your  child  would  then  have  to  be 
sent  to  the  Foundling  Hospital,  but  in  case 
you  lived  I  would  bring  it  back,  and  you 
never  need  know  it  had  been  away  from  you. 
I  was  not  long  in  acting  upon  this  tempta- 
tion. Just  as  I  had  finished  dressing  my 
child  in  a  suit  of  the  delicate  little  clothes 
belonging  to  you,  the  doctor  entered,  and  I 
had  no  time  to  change  the  rich  robe  of  the 
other  for  the  coarse  poor  things  I  had  taken 
off  my  baby.  Fearing  I  might  be  detected 
in  my  deception,  I  folded  it  in  a  shawl  and 
hastened  away,  leaving  my  baby  in  its  deli- 
cate robes  sleeping  by  your  side. 

"  When  I  reached  ihe  hospital  I  dared  not 
present  myself  before  Sister  Agatha,  who 
knew  me  well,  with  a  child  dressed  in  costly 
linen  and  lace ;  flic  would  know  at  once  it 
was  not  mine,  and  suspect  some  fraud.  So 
I  rang  the  bell,  placed  it  in  the  basket,  and 
hurried  away  without  a  word.  Seven  days 
after,  my  baby  died  with  cramps ;  it  was 
only  sick  a  few  hours.  My  <.riiet  was  terri- 
ble, for  I  considered  it  a  just  punishment 
from  God  for  the  sin  I  had  committed.  But 
I  determined  after  you  died,  —  for  I  expected 
your  death  momently,  —  to  take  your  child 
from  the  hospital,  and  love  and  care  for  it 
as  though  it  were  my  own.  Much  to  my 
astonishment  you  lived  and  returned  to  con- 
sciousness, and  your  first  words  were  a  demand 
for  your  child.  Then,  too  afraid  to  confess 
what  I  had  done,  I  was  obliged  to  tell  you  it 
wns  dead.  You  were  so  quiet,  and  never  wept 
nor  moaned  for  it,  so  I  thought  —  pardon 
me,  Signora,  I  thought — it  was  sonic  dis- 
grazia,  and  you  were  glad  it  was  gone. 

"  Then  you  know  what  followed.  The 
gentleman  came  to  take  you  away,  but  be- 
fore leaving  you  wished  to  sec  the  grave 
of  your  child.  I  accompanied  you  to  the 
Campo  Santo,  and  showed  you  the  little 
mound  that  covered  my  baby ;  and  all  the 
while  my  heart  was  breaking  with  remorse 
and  grief  at  the  deception. 


WOVEN   OF   MANY   THREADS. 


110 


"  As  soon  as  you  were  gone  I  went  to  the 
hospital  and  asked  for  a  child  to  nurse,  toll- 
ing Sister  Agatha  mine  was  dead.  J  saw  at 
once  she  was  very  fond  of  the  little  Guido, 
who  was  as  lovely  as  an  angel.  She  did  not 
wish  me  to  take  it  away,  bat  1  would  have  no 
other,  and  so  she  reluctantly  consented.  I 
loved  it  dearly ;  in  a  little  while  it  took  the 
place  of  my  dead  baby.  I  cared  for  it  tenderly, 
perhaps  more  tenderly  because  of  the  re- 
morse that  was  work  in--  in.  my  heart.  But  we 
were  so  poor  I  could  not  keep  it  long ;  1  had 
to  go  into  service  again,  and  my  Benedetto 
mnrb  me  carry  it  back  to  the  hospital. 
Then  my  Mona  was  born,  my  last  child, 
but  I  never  lost  sight  of  Guido.  I  did  all  I 
could  for  the  little  angel  in  my  poor  way. 
He  did  not  need  me ;  he  was  the  pet  of  the 
institution,  and  the  especial  charge  of  Sister 
Agatha.  I  saw  him  grow  up  talented,  be- 
loved, and  respected ;  still  I  knew  I  had 
committed  a  great  sin  in  keeping  him  from 
his  family,  but  after  you  were  gone  it  was  too 
late  to  restore  him  to  you.  I  did  not  know 
your  name,  nor  where  you  had  gone,  and 
each  year  that  passed  made  it  more  impossi- 
ble to  discover  you. 

"  When  my  Mona  was  taken  away  from 
me,  and  all  my  trouble  came,  I  knew  it  was 
a  punishment  from  God,  who  would  not  for- 
give me  -until  I  had  made  confession  and 
reparation.  Yet  for  some  reason  I  could 
not  go  to  a  priest.  I  preferred  to  tell  Sister 
Agatha,  and  she  promised  to  do  all  that  was 
possible  to  discover  the  parents  of  Guido, 
and  also  to  tell  him  the  whole  story,  which 
she  did  this  morning.  It  was  to  speak  of  this 
to  you  that  he  wished  to  see  you  to-day.  It 
seems  to  me  that  the  blessed  Madonna  has1 
heard  my  prayer,  and  with  my  first  effort 
to  do  right,  she  has  -.-wisted  me  by  bring- 
ing me  to  you.  Now  I  '•* ;  i  jve  my  child  will 
be  cured ! " 

Lady  Dinsmore  had  listened  to  Filo- 
mena's  recital  in  breathless  silence,  and 
when  the  woman  had  finished  she  said, 
"  Was  aqy  other  person  acquainted  .  with 
this  secret  but  yourself?  " 

"  Only  my  Benedetto,  Signora  ;  the  people 
in  the  house  and  the  doctor  believed  it 
was  your  child  that  died." 

"  But  there  is  one  thing  that  I  cannot 
understand,  —  how  he  bears  the  name  of  his 
father." 

"  Ah,  Sir/nnrrt,  no  one  knew  it  to  be  the 
name  of  his  father.  His  name  was  given  to 
him  by  Sister  Agatha;  she  called  him  Guido 
Bernardo  for  her  only  brother,  who  died  in 
Naples  a  few  weeks  before." 

u  How  mysterious  are  thy  ways,  O  God  !  " 
said  Lady  Diusmore.  "  This  woman  who 
was  so  kind  to  my  darling  child  must  b;1  H.V 
husband's  sister,  the  nun  he  so  often  spoke 
of."  L  >::king  steadily  into  the  eyes  of  Filo- 
mena,  she;  said,  almost  sternly,  "I  believe 
10 


you  have  told  me  the  truth.  11>e'ieve  thi.s 
young  man  is  indeed  my  child,  my  hc.irt 
tells  me  so,  but  are  you  prepared  with  your 
husband  to  assert  this  on  your  oath  V  " 

"Yes,  with  a  thousand  oaths  if  it  is  ne- 
cessary; but  O  tiiynora  mid!  tell  me  you 
forgive  me,  and  will  not  punish  me !  " 

"  Yon  did  me  a  great  wrong,  'n 
j  you  fully  and  1'reely.     My  heart  is  too  full 
I  of  gratitude  to  cherish  resentment.      Now 
|  go,  1  need  to  be  alone  ;  go,  and  si  u  1  Si  .'nor 
i  Guido  to  me  directly ;  do  not  speak  to  i 
|  what  has  occurred.     I  wish  to  be  the  first 
to  tell  him  he  is  my  child." 

An  hour  after,  when  Guido  en  ten- 1  the 
room,  Lady  Din«more  came  toward  him  with 
extended  arms,  and,  throwing  herself  on  his 
breast,  amid  tears  and  sobs,  >he  exclaimed, 
"  My  child,  my  darling  child !  " 

Guido  thought  for  a  moment  she  was  la- 
boring  under   some    mental    derangement, 
until  with  a  great  effort  she  calmed  herself 
so  as  to  speak  coherently.     Then  she  drew 
him  down  by  her  side,  and  with  his  hands 
clasped  in  hers,  she  told  him  all  the.  story 
that  Filoinena  had  just  related  to  her.     Jt 
is  needless  to  dsscribe  the  explanation*,  the 
surprise,  the  joy  and  rapture  of  the  mother 
and  child,  who  loved  each  other  tenderly 
bafore  they  knew  of  the  tie  existing  between 
them.     Lady  Diasmoro    pushed    back    the 
hair  from  Guide's  forehead,  and,  looking  into 
his  face,   believed  she    discovered    a  luiii- 
|  dred  traces  of  resemblance  to  the  1>: 
dead  that    she    had   not    noticed    before. 
i  As  she  leaned  her  head  on  the  shoulder  of 
her    child,  the   past  came  back  so  vividly 
I  that  she  almost  thought  it  to  be  the  Guido 
I  of  her  youth  who  caressed  her,  instead  of  his 
:  son. 

Florence's  astonishment  was  no  sweater 
i  than  her  delight  when  she  knew  (Juid.)  was 
j  her  brother.     What  an  infinity  of  quest  loin 
had  to  be  answered,  what  expla 
revelations,  before   all   were    satisfied    and 
convinced  !    But  at  the  end  of  a  week  it  was 
'  known   throughout  Rome,  both  in   Italian 
'and  foreign  society,  that  the  poor  young 
I  singer,  the  foundling  of  Santo  Spirito.  was 
legally  acknowledged  as  the  legitim::' 
!  of  a  noble  English  lady.     Then  how  Mrs. 
Gr.indy  regretted,  and  Mrs.  Parlby  and  her 
clique   sighed,  because  they  had  not  had 
;  discernment  enough  to  discover  the   blue. 
b!o:xl !     But   it  was  too  late;   society  lia  I 
made  one  of  its   stupid  mistakes,  wlti.-h   it, 
tried  to  atone  for  afterwards  by  ci : 
and  fawning  and  r.seles-;  sycophancy. 

Constance  did  feel  a  little  exnlnrion  in 
her  heart,  but  she  looked  into  (liiMY 
with   the  same  true  eyes,  and   said, 
must  not  think  I  love  you  any  better,  or  (eel 
any  more  pride  in  you,  now  I  ki\'>w   •• 
lie  Lidv  Din.-.more's  son,  than  I  did  luvbiv. 
It  is  you  I  love,  your  own  dear,  noble  sell." 


120 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


"  Ah,  my  darling,"  he  replied  fondly,  "  it 
is  a  beautii'ul  reward  for  your  disinterested 
love  :  1  am  so  thankful,  now  I  can  give  you 
a  position  worthy  of  you." 

There  was  a  visit  of  the  whole  happy 
party  to  Sister  Agatha,  and  an  affecting  in- 
terview between  her  and  Lady  Dinsmore. 
The  little  bundle  of  linen  and  lace  was 
brought  out,  examined,  and  wept  over  with 
tears  of  mingled  joy  and  sadness.  Then 
Sister  Agatha  put  them  reverently  away, 
for  they  seemed  a  part  of  the  little  angel 
who  had  nestled  so  lovingly  to  her  lonely 
heart. 

Lady  Dinsmore  would  scarcely  spare  her 
son  from  her  sight.  She  was  not  contented 
until  he  was  living  under  the  same  roof,  sat 
opposite  her  at  table,  was  the  first  to  wel- 
come her  in  the  morning,  and  the  last  to  say 
good  night.  If  Florence  had  been  less  amia- 
ble, and  if  her  affections  had  not  been  be- 
stowed on  another,  she  might  have  been  a 
little  jealous ;  but  as  it  was,  she  only  assisted 
her  mamma  to  pet  and  spoil  her  new-found 
brother. 

Guido  was  supremely  happy.  One  by 
one  the  sorrows  of  his  life  had  been  taken 
away,  and  now  he  seemed  endowed  with 
every  blessing ;  a  mother,  sister,  love, 
friends,  wealth,  and  birth  were  all  bestowed 
upon  him  by  the  munificent  hand  of  the 
Giver  of  good.  He  acknowledged  it  all  with 
solemn  gratitude,  and  in  the  true  piety  of 
his  nature  prayed  for  humility,  lest  his  pros- 
perity should  cause  him  to  forget  the  sad 
discipline  of  his  life. 

There  was  a  festa  at  the  Sacre  Cceur,  and 
Guido  had  promised  the  Superior  to  sing 
the  vespers.  Lady  Dinsmore  and  Constance 
were  there,  and  before  the  altar  knelt  Filo- 
mena,  apparently  praying  devoutly,  but  at 
the  same  time  glancing  anxiously  at  the 
private  door  which  led  from  the  chapel  to 
the  convent.  All  the  nuns  had  entered,  and 
were  kneeling  in  their  respective  places, 
their  black-veiled  heads  bowed  over  their 
rosaries.  The  altar-boy  was  lighting  the 
candles  around  the  altar,  and  the  officiating 
priest,  in  his  robes  of  lace  and  gold-embroi- 
dered stole,  was  muttering  in  an  indistinct 
voice  the  prayers.  It  was  an  hour  before 
A ve  Maria,  and  the  golden  sunlight  fell  in 
long,  slanting  rays  through  the  pictured 
windows  of  the  little  chapel,  turning  into 
dusky  gold  the  branched  candlesticks  of  the 
altar.  All  was  silence,  save  the  murmuring 
of  the  priest,  the  tinkling  of  the  swinging 
censer,  and  the  low  solemn  tones  of  the 
organ. 

Filomena's  face  lighted  as  the  door  softly 
opened  and  Moca  entered,  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  Sister  Agatha.     Her  face  was   as 
ghastly  pale  as  ever,  but  her  lips  had  lost  j 
their  hard  expression,  and  her  eyes  their  j 
wild,   restless   stare.      She   knelt  between  j 


her  mother  and  Sister  Agatha  at  the  altar, 
and,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands,  re- 
mained as  motionless  as  a  statue. 

The  little  chapel  was  filled  with  the  sweet- 
est harmony  as  Guido  sang.  The  streams  of 
sunlight  grew  dusky  and  faint.  The  white 
cloud  of  incense  rose  and  floated  away  into 
the  arched  roof,  like  the  soft  flutter  of  an  an- 
gel's wing.  The  face  of  the  marble  Madon- 
na beamed  with  infinite  love  as  she  bent 
over  the  sleeping  child  in  her  arms.  The 
wounds  of  the  crucified  Christ  Deemed  to 
bleed  afresh,  and  the  tears  to  flow  down  his 
worn  face.  All  was  pity,  tenderness,  and 
calm.  The  twilight  hour,  the  exquisite  mu- 
sic, and  the  solemn  silence  of  each  kneeling 
worshipper,  were  a  spell  of  peace  that  could 
not  fail  to  soothe  and  calm  the  restless  heart 
of  the  mourner.  Gradually  the  dark  cloud 
that  had  enshrouded  her  so  long  rose  and 
floated  away,  and  she  saw  the  blue  heavens 
pierced  with  angel  faces,  which  all  smiled 
compassion  and  pity  upon  her.  And  one 
who  bore  the  likeness  of  him  she  had  loved 
on  earth  stretched  out  his  arms,  seeming  to 
draw  her  up  even  to  the  throne  of  Him  who 
sitteth  in  the  heavens. 

Sister  Agatha  saw  a  smile  of  almost  ecs- 
tasy pass  over  her  face,  as  she  clasped  her 
hands  and  raised  her  eyes  to  the  pictured 
Christ  bending  above  her,  and  Filomena, 
who  was  watching  her,  knew  that  her  child 
was  saved.  The  consolation  of  her  holy  re- 
ligion, and  the  power  of  music,  blessed  by 
God,  had  exorcised  the  dark  spirit,  as  when 
the  youthful  David  touched  his  harp  and 
sang  before  Saul. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

UNDER   THE   LIGHT    OF   STARS. 

"  YTOU  are  not  well  this  evening,  Helen," 
JL  said  Mr.  Carnegie  to  Mrs.  Tremaine, 
who  was  waiting  in  the  drawing-room  for 
the  carriage.  She  looked  exquisitely  love- 
ly as  she  stood,  the  toe  of  her  satin  slipper 
on  the  fender,  and  her  round  white  arm 
resting  on  the  velvet  cover  of  the  mantel- 
piece. Her  dress,  the  most  delicate  shade  of 
Rembrandt  green,  set  off  to  advantage  her 
golden  hair  and  fair  complexion. 

As  Mr.  Carnegie  looked  at  her  in  undis- 
guised admiration,  perhaps  the  regret  that  a 
thing  so  lovely  must  fade  caused  his  remark 
respecting  her  health.  "  You  dear  silly 
goose,"  she  said,  lightly  tapping  his  cheek 
with  her  fan,  "  why  .do  you  think  I  am  not 
well?  I  was  never  in  better  health  and 
spirits  in  my  life." 

'•  1  hope  you  speak  the  truth,  Helen."  he 
replied  gravely,  u  but  that  strange  white- 
ness around  your  mouth,  and  thote  fitful  red 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


121 


spots  on  your  cheeks,  do  not  denote  health. 
1  think  the  excitement  of  the  winter  i-  wear- 
ing you  out.  I  am  glad  the  season  is  nearly 
ended,  I  hope  we  shall  be  quieter  after  it." 

"  Yes,  I  hope  so,"  she  replied  in  a  low 
voice,  pressing  her  hand  to  her  side,  for  a 
sharp  spasm  almost  wrenched  a  cry  from  her 
lips. 

The  servant  announced  the  carriage  and, 
a  moment  after,  Constance  and  Madame 
Landel  entered  the  room,  b5th  in  evening 
dress.  They  were  going  to  a  ball  at  the  Tor- 
Ionia  Palace,  —  the  crowning  magnificence 
of  the  season.  Lady  Dinsmore,  since  the 
discovery  of  her  son,  as  she  was  anxious  to 
present  him  to  the  best  society,  accepted  in- 
vitations where  she  had  declined  before.  It 
was  an  evening  of  triumph  for  Guido,  for 
among  the  many  distinguished  guests  none 
received  more  nattering  attention.  His 
youth  and  talents,  connected  with  his  sin- 
gular and  romantic  history,  excited  in  the 
minds  of  all  a  lively  interest.  The  Mrs. 
Pari by  clique  were  not  admitted  to  this  re- 
chei'c/tc  assembly,  so  there  were  few  to  make 
envious  and  malicious  remarks.  His  old 
iriend  and  patron,  Cardinal  Catrucci,  was 
present,  and  his  congratulations  were  most 
sincere  and  cordial.  "  I  always  thought  the 
dear  boy  was  made  of  something  more  than 
common  clay,"  he  said  to  Lady  Dinsmore, 
in  reply  to  her  almost  tearful  thanks  for 
the  interest  he  had  taken  in  her  son. 

And  Constance  commanded  a  due  share 
of  admiration,  principally  for  her  beauty  and 
grace,  but  also  for  her  unselfish  loyal  love, 
that  had  accepted  the  young  man  when  he 
had  nothing  to  recommend  him  but  his  no- 
ble, gentle  character.  "  What  a  beautifiil 
proof  of  love ! "  many  said  admiringly,  "  and 
how  justly  her  devotion  is  rewarded ! "  Con- 
stance would  have  been  happy  and  contented 
with  her  choice  if  there  had  been  no  change 
in  his  position ;  but  I  must  avow  her  wo- 
man's heart  throbbed  a  little  with  gratified 
pride  when  she  saw  Guido  surrounded  by 
the  most  distinguished  persons  present. 

Lady  Dinsmore  seemed  to  have  renewed 
her  youth  ;  she  was  smiling,  almost  brilliant, 
and  Florence  trembled  anil  blushed  like  an 
opening  rose  under  the  admiring  gaze  of 
Fitzhaven,  who  scarcely  lefc  her  side. 

"  What  a  charming  group  of  youth  and 
beauty ! "  said  the  old  Prince  Torlonia. 
"  Lady  Dinsmore,  I  congratulate  you  ;  you 
have  under  your  charge  three,  of  the  most 
lovely  Indies  in  the  assembly, — different 
types,  but  1  cannot  tell  which  I  admire 
most." 

"Thanks,"  said  Lady  Dinsmore,  smiling, 
"I  call  them  all  my  children,  and  I  canuol. 
tell  which  I  love  best." 

'•  Ilri;>;>y  children,  to  be  blessed  with  such 
a  mot'u'i,"   he  replied,  bowing  gallantly  as 
..e,d  away. 

16 


Scarcely  had  Mrs.  Tremainc  entered  the 
ball-room  when  the  Prince  Conti  was  at  her 
side,  card  in  hand,  soliciting  for  a  wait/.. 

'•  You  must  excuse  me,"  she  said,  de- 
cidedly, but  sweetly,  while  ^he  clunj,  to  .Mr. 
Carnegie's  arm.  "  I  shall  only  waltz  once 
this  evening,  and  with  but  one  person." 

"  Then  a  quadrille  ?  "  he  continued,  ea- 
gerly. 

"  I  am  already  engaged  to  the  Duke  of 
Fitzhaven  for  the  single  quadrille  1  shall 
dance." 

His  brow  lowered,  and  he  bit  his  lip  as  he 
turned  away  without  a  word. 

"Why  did  you  not  dance  with  him  ju-t 
once,  Helen?  "said  Mr.  Carnegie.  "The 
refusal  seemed  a  little  singular ;  I  think  it 
would  be  more  politic  to  dance  with  him 
once." 

"If  I  dance  with  him  at  all,  I  shall  dance 
with  him  more  than  once,"  she  replied,  rais- 
ing her  truthful  eyes  to  his  face.  '•  Pray,  do 
not  question  my  decision.  Believe  me,  it  is 
best." 

He  said  nothing,  but  sighed  heavily,  look- 
ing after  her,  and  sighing  again  and  a'j;ain, 
as  Fitzhaven  led  her  away  for  the  quadrille 
she  had  promised  him.  Then  he  went  to 
seek  Florence,  to  whom  he  was  engaged  for 
the  same  dance. 

"Leave  me  alone  for  a  moment,"  said 
Mrs.  Tremaine,  as  Fitzhaven,  after  the  qua- 
drille, led  her  to  a  seat  in  an  alcove,  where  a 
large  window  opened  on  a  balcony.  "  Let 
me  sit  here  and  dream  a  little ;  it  is  so  cool 
and  refreshing." 

"  Just  as  you  wish,"  he  replied.  "  I  am 
engaged  to  Miss  Wilbreham  for  the  next 
dance  ;  after  that  I  will  bring  her  to  you." 

So  he  went  oft'  gayly  to  find  Constance, 
and  Mrs.  Tremaine,  glancing  around  to  see 
that  no  one  observed  her,  stepped  out  <m  the 
balcony,  and,  leaning  over  the  stone  balus- 
trade, looked  down  into  the  r.-xe-^irdeu 
below.  It  was  a  moonless  ni^ht,  but  the 
heavens  were  radiant  with  the  liuht  of  stars. 
The  heavy  air  lay  in  a  level  calm  around 
her;  nature  seemed  reposing  in  a  languid 
sort  of  swoon,  faint  and  oppressed  v.-'nh  the 
odor  that  Flora  showered  from  her  open 
hand.  The  sad,  silent  city  was  slir.nl), -ring 
beneath  her,  like  an  aged,  exha^'ed  mourn- 
er, who  composes  her  limbs  and  f;>l.! 
weeds  about  her,  —  sleepin  r,  as  she  had 
slept  for  centuries,  pnlsele-s.  p:^  e.nle^s, 
;<n  1  serene.  The  music  floated  out  on  the. 
perfumed  air;  the  s:>und  of  r-vehy,  the 
merry  voices,  the  Ihht  !  '!  as» 

sumed    strange    weird   tones   (!• 
scarcely  human   to  her  morbid  mind.     She 
th  uuh't,  "  They  are  likj  the  mocking  voices 
of  fiends." 

A  demon  stirred  the  lu-ivy  air,  ami  b 
serpent-like  in  her  ear,  "  <>  'he  '• 
life!     0  the  hollowiicss  of  joy  !     Know  yo 


122 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


not  that  each  gay  reveller  is  but  a  ghastly 
skeleton  ;  that  youth,  beauty,  and  mirth  are 
but  the  masks  men  wear ;  that  under  the 
smiling  exterior  is  the  heart  filled  with 
hot  and  seething  passions,  —  envy,  malice, 
hate,  revenge,  falsehood,  deceit,  and  incon- 
stancy ;  that  life  is  but  a  mad  masquerade, 
that  will  end  suddenly  when  the  great  bell 
of  doomsday  sounds,  and  in  the  presence 
of  the  stern  Judge  every  passion  of  the 
human  heart  shall  be  laid  bare,  every  secret 
of  the  soul  exposed  to  the  searching  white 
light  of  eternity  ?  " 

Thoughts  like  these  rolled  and  surged 
through  her  brain  until  she  clasped  her 
hands  to  her  head,  and  murmured,  "  O  my 
God  !  I  believe  madness  is  coming  upon  me. 
Above  the  excitement,  the  pomp  and  fashion 
of  life,  these  dark  thoughts  ever  assert  them- 
selves. O,  it  is  true  when  we  drive  from 
our  hearts  the  angels  of  love  and  peace, 
demons  take  possession  of  the  empty  cham- 
bers, holding  mad  revels  that  waste  and 
destroy  the  frail  tenant  !  "  She  pressed 
her  hand  with  a  gesture  of  agony  over  her 
heart,  and  raised  her  eyes  as  if  to  draw  pity 
from  the  silent  stars. 

At  that  moment  a  man  stepped  out  of  a 
door  at  the  farther  end  of  the  balcony.  It 
was  the  Prince  Conti.  In  spite  of  the  dark- 
ness he  recognized  her  instantly,and,  coming 
toward  her,  said,  with  eager  joy  in  his  voice, 
"  At  last  I  have  found  you  alone.  All  the 
saints  be  praised  for  this  opportunity  1 " 

She  did  not  reply,  but,  sweeping  back  her 
robes  with  an  imperious  motion,  and  raising 
her  head  haughtily,  she  turned  to  enter  the 
ball-room. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Helen,  stop  a  moment, 
I  have  much  to  say  to  you  !  "  he  cried,  in  a 
suppressed  voice,  seizing  her  hand. 

"  What  can  the  Prince  Conti  have  to  say 
to  me  ?  "  she  inquired,  in  a  tone  that  con- 
tained not  an  inflection  of  tenderness,  — 
calm,  clear,  and  cutting,  as  the  light  of  the 
moon  reflected  from  an  icicle. 

"  What  can  I  have  to  say  to  you  ?  what 
can  a  heart  mad  with  passionate  love  have 
to  say  to  the  object  of  its  adoration  ?  " 

"  Oh !  "  she  answered,  with  a  little  scorn- 
ful laugh.  "  But  the  same  old  story  you  re- 
peated long,  long  ago.  It  has  lost  its  interest, 
because  it  contains  nothing  original,  nothing 
new." 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment  in  mute  aston- 
ishment. "  Madre  di  Dw,  can  this  be  the 
woman  who  less  than  a  year  ago  told  me 
she  loved  me  ?  " 

"  The  very  same,"  she  replied,  lightly. 

"  Helen  Tremaine,  do  you  dare  to  trifle 
so  with  me  ?  "  Coming  nearer,  he  grasped 
her  arm  with  a  force  and  passion  that  left 
the  imprint  of  his  fingers  on  her  white  flesh. 

She  drew  herself  away  with  a  look  that 
made  him  tremble.  Her  mouth  quivered, 


and  something  like  tears  started  to  her  eye$ 
as  she  cried  in  a  voice  filled  with  the  strengtk 
of  scorn,  "Love  is  not  won  by  brutality, 
neither  is  respect !  Prince  Conti,  nearly  a 
year  ago  I  told  you  all  was  over  between  us 
forever;  and  when  I  spoke  those  words,  I 
spoke  them  with  the  truth  of  one  standing 
in  the  presence  of  God.  They  admit  of  no 
change,  no  equivocation ;  they  are  as  final, 
as  irrevocable,  as  the  sound  of  the  trumpet 
at  doomsday.  They  were  not  words  spoken 
from  lip  to  lip,  but  from  soul  to  soul.  If 
you  have  not  understocd  them,  it  is  because 
there  is  no  germ  of  truth  in  your  nature ;  I 
told  you  I  loved  you  then,  I  did  love  you 
then,  but  —  but  I  love  you  no  more."  She 
stopped;  her  voice  was  cut  cff  suddenly,  as 
suddenly  as  a  thunderbolt  descends  from  the 
sky ;  the  words  seemed  to  cleave  the  air 
around  her,  and  die  in  the  essence  of  siler.ee. 
Neither  spoke  for  a  moment,  but  each  stood 
looking  into  the  face  of  the  other,  demons 
struggling  in  the  forms  of  angels. 

"  And  you  love  me  no  more  V  "  he  srid  at 
last,  in  a  voice  of  mingled  scorn,  grief,  and 
incredulity. 

"  I  love  you  no  more,"  she  replied  between 
her  set  teeth,  with  a  sort  of  gasp  that  ended 
in  a  sob. 

"  O  fair  and  false,  you  lied  to  me !  You 
never  loved  me." 

She  grasped  the  railing  a  moment  for  sup- 
port as  she  replied,  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to 
be  sinking  lower  and  lower,  "  I  thought  I 
did  ;  do  not  reproach  me,  1  thought  I  did." 

"  Curse  you  !  "  he  cried,  with  smothered 
wrath.  "  You  are  all  false.  Curse  you  again 
and  again ! " 

^•Fcr  a  moment  she  forgot  herself.  Spring- 
ing forward,  she  clasped  his  hands,  crying, 
"  O  Ortensio,  do  not  say  that !  it  is  too  ter- 
rible." 

All  the  fierce  passion  of  his  nature  was 
aroused  withim  him,  and,  flinging  off  her 
hands,  he  hissed  out,  "  Try  no  more  of 
your  blandishments  en  me.  There  are 
others,  who  do  not  know  you,  to  be  your 
victims.  You  have  played  with  me,  and 
now  you  fling  me  away  like  a  ruined  toy." 

A  strange  expression  passed  over  her 
face.  She  folded  her  arms  and  drew  herself 
up  to  her  most  queenly  height,  and  h  oking  at 
him  with  a  little  light  laugh,  she  said,  "Why 
do  you  blame  me  that  I  have  taken  the  initi- 
ative in  my  own  hands  ?  If  I  had  not  de- 
ceived you,  you  would  have  deceived  me, 
n'est-ce  pas,  mon  ami  ?  Rather  admire  me 
that  I  was  clever  enough  to  be  so  good  an 
actor." 

All  the  passion  faded  cut  of  his  face.  He 
stepped  away  from  her  and  regarded  her 
a  moment  with  something  like  contempt. 
Then  he  said  in  a  voice  a?  calm  and  clear  as 
hers,  "  Is  it  possible  you  are  Helen  Tre- 
maSne,  the  woman  who  less  than  a  year  a^o 


WOVEN   OF  MANY  THREADS. 


1  _•< 


clung  to  my  breast,  and  spoke  to  me  in 
words  sweet,  pure,  and  tender  as  an  angel's, 
—  words  that  lifted  my  heart  for  a  moment 
from  the  baseness  of  earth  to  the  truth  and 
holiness  of  heaven,  —  words  that  have  ever 
since  sounded  in  my  ears  as  the  prayers  my 
mother  breathed  over  my  cradle,  —  words 
that  mado  me  believe  there  were  truth  and 
purity  in  the  heart  of  a  woman  ?  And  they 
were  false  ?  and  all  that  scene  was  but 
acting  ?  I  had  enshrined  you  in  my  heart 
as  the  most  noble,  as  well  as  the  most  beau- 
tiful. Why,  why  have  you  undeceived  me  ? 
You  have  done  yourself  an  irreparable  in- 
jury, for  I  now  despise  what  I  have  wor- 
shipped." For  a  moment  he  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands,  and  something  like  a 
sob  burst  from  his  full  heart.  Then  he 
raised  his  head,  his  eyes  gleaming  like 
fire,  and  shaking  his  hands  menacingly  at 
her,  he  cried,  "  O  woman,  beware  how  you 
kindle  this  hell  of  passion  in  the  heart  of  a 
man,  and  then  strive  to  extinguish  it  by  : 
falsehood  and  scorn !  Your  day  of  punish-  j 
ment  will  come  when  there  will  be  none  to  ! 
listen  to  the  cries  of  your  needy  soul.  I  j 
despise  you  as  much  as  I  once  loved  you,  ! 
and  1  never  wish  to  behold  you  again." 

With  a  last  glance  of  mingled  scorn  and 
anger,  he  turned  and  strode  away. 

She  stepped   forward,   reached    out  her  j 
arm?,  and  tried  to  speak  his  name,  but  her  i 
lips  refused  to    utter    any    sound.      Then  I 
her  arms  fell,  her  head  drooped  heavily  on  | 
her  breast ;  she  seemed  to  collapse,  to  sink  ; 
together,  as  one  suddenly  smitten  with  old  j 
age.     Some  one  spoke  her  name,   but  the 
voice  sounded  far  away ;  a  supporting  arm  j 
was  placed  around  her  just  in  time  to  pre-  : 
vent  her  falling.     And  fainting,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  she  sank  senseless  on  Mr. 
Carnegie's  breast. 

"  Helen  is  not  well !  I  shall  take  her 
home,"  he  said  to  Lady  Dinsmore  a  half- 
hour  later.  "  But  do  not  hurry  Miss  Wil- 
breham  on  her  account.  She  only  needs 
rest  and  sleep." 

"  It  is  very  late,  and  we  shall  all  go  as  ?oon 
as  that  madcap  finishes  her  dance,"  she  re- 
plied, glancing  at  Florence,  who  was  floating 
like  a  zephyr  on  the  arm  of  Fitzhaven. 

The  tiny  clock  on  Mrs.  Tremr.ine's  mantel- 
piece struck  the  hour  of  three  as  some  one 
tapped  at  her  door.  It  was  Constance,  who 
had  just  returned  from  the  ball,  and  could 
not  retire  until  she  knew  if  Helen  was 
better.  "  If  she  sleeps  I  will  not  awaken 
her,"  she  thought,  as  she  knocked  again 
softly.  There  was  no  answer.  Tho  light 
was  still  burning.  She  tried  the  door;  it 
was  not  locked.  Slie  opened  it  and  went 
in.  Helen  sat  huddled  up  in  an  arm-chair, 
still  in  her  baH-dre^,  her  arms  folded  on 
!  bent  forward  so  as  to 
Cjn^tance  went  to  her  i 


and  put  her  hand  on  her  shoulder  before  she 
seemed  aware  that  any  DUO  was  in  the  n,o:n. 
Then  she-  started  and"  rai-cd  a  far.-  - 
gard  and  worn  with  suffering -that  hrrlricud 
cried  in  astonishment,  "  O  Helen,  what  is 
it  ?  what  has  happened  ?  " 

"  Enough,"  she  replied,  in  a  hard,  cold 
voice.  "  lie  despises  me,  and  that  is  enough 
to  madden  me." 

"  Who  despises  you  ?  " 

"  Who  ?  "  she  repeated  bitterly.  "  There  is 
but  one  person  in  the  world  whose  scorn  or 
contempt  would  matter  aught  to  me.  O  Or- 
tensio,  why,  why  did  I  dcciive  you  ?  1  love 
you,  I  have  always  loved  you,  and  yet  I  told 
you  a  cruel,  deliberate  falsehood."  Sh; 
ed  up  and  commenced  pacing  hurriedly  back 
and  forth,  her  hands  clasped  over  her  fore- 
head and  the  red  spot  burning  on  her  cheek. 

Then,  pausing  before  Constance,  she  laid 
a  hot  hand  on  hers  and  said,  '•  I  am  con- 
suming with  fever.  My  brain  is  on  fire.  I 
am  mad,  and  yet  I  cannot  die.  O,  I 
thought  my  heart  would  break  before  this 
sacrifice  was  required  of  me  !  I  thought 
God  would  mercifully  heal  me  with  dralh. 

0  Constance,  to-night  I  stood  alone  with 
him  under  the  light  of  the  stars,  with  none 
but  the  stern  eye  of  God  upon  me  ;  and  I 
would  have  given  all  the  future  years  of  my 
life  to  have  laid  my  head  upon  his  breast  for 
a  moment  and  heard  him   say  '  darling  '  as 
he  once  paid  it.     Yet  coldly  and  scornfully 

1  looked  him  in  the  face,  and  told  him  I  no 
longer  loved  him.     But  I  did  it  torlii>  sake. 
I  knew  how  he  suffered,  and  I  thought  if  I 
taught  him  to  despise  me  he  would  cease  to 
love  me.     I  tried  to  cure  one  wound  by  in- 
flicting another.     But  I  fear  by  doing  it  I 
have  driven  myself  to  madness.     J  can  be  a 
hypocrite  no  longer.     Let  the  world  know  I 
am  dying  of  a  broken  heart.     Helen  Tre- 
maine  is  no  more;    in  her  s(.  ad  is  but  a 
shadow,  —  a  cold,  lifeless  shadow.     I  shall 
never  smile  a<jain  until  I  smile  in  the  fare  of 
death.     O  Ortensio  1    the  memory  of  your 
curse,  your  scorn,  your  contempt,  will  haunt 
me  day  and  night.     It  will  follow  me  beyond 
the  gate  of  time,  and  I  shall  hear  it  even 
above  the  roar  of  the  dark  river.     There  is 
nothing  in  Ufa  or  death  for  me.     Poor  body, 
poor  soul,  drift  where  thou  wilt ! 

"  Go,  Constance,"  she  said,  "  leave  me 
alone;  you  but  intrude  upon  my  sorrow; 
you  are  happy,  and  there  is  no  sympathy 
•u  joy  and  suffering:  go  to  ;  our  bed, 
to  your  sweet  dreams  of  love  aiid  happi- 
ness." 

"  Poor  Helen,  dear  friend,"   said   Con- 
stance, clamping  her  in  her  arm.*,   "  I  love 
you  as  a  si-tor,  we  nil  love  you;    try  and 
this  fatal  passion,  and  be  hupp; 
ho  worship  you." 

"The  worship  of  a  thousand  hearts  is 
nothing ;  I  would  rather  have  one  smile  from 


124 


WOVEN   OF  MAXY   THREADS. 


him  now  than  the  adoration  of  the  whole 
world." 

Constance  glanced  back  at  her  as  she  left 
the  room  ;  with  her  dishevelled  hair,  crushed 
dress,  swollen  eyes,  and  pale,  despairing 
face,  she.  did  indeed  seem  another  person 
than  the  Helen  Tremaine  who  had  left  her 
room  a  few  hours  before  in  the  flush  and 
glory  of  her  beauty. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

SHE  SMILED  IN  THE  FACE  OF  DEATH. 

T^IIE  next  morning  Mr.  Carnegie  called  to 
inquire  after  Helen's  health.     Pie  found 
Constance   in  the   drawing-room,  and   she 
came  forward  to  meet  him  with  a  troubled 
face. 

"  How  is  Helen  this  morning  ? "  he  in- 
quired, anxiously. 

"  O  Mr.  Carnegie,  I  am  very  unhappy 
about  her ;  she  has  not  left  her  room,  and 
she  refuses  to  see  any  one." 

"Perhaps  she  will  see  me,"  he  said,  ring- 
ing the  bell.  He  gave  his  message  to  the' 
servant,  and  in  a  few  moments  she  returned, 
saying  the  Signora  would  see  Mr.  Carnegie 
if  he  would  wait.  He  paced  the  room  ner- 
vously, glancing  from  time  to  time  out  of  the 
window,  or  exchanging  a  few  words  with 
Constance  on  ordinary  subjects;  neither 
referred  to  Helen  again.  In  a  half-hour  she 
entered,  scarcely  noticing  Mr.  Carnegie  or 
Constance.  She  passed  by  them,  walked 
straight  to  the  window,  and  stood  silently 
looking  out.  There  was  something  in  her 
appearance  that  startled  them  both,  and 
they  exchanged  uneasy  glances  as  they 
looked  at  her.  Dressed  in  black,  her  masses 
ot  golden. hair  tied  carelessly  back  with  a 
black  velvet  band,  from  the  contrast  she 
seemed  clear  and  colorless  as  carved  alabas- 
ter; around  her  eyes  were  heavy  shadows, 
and  her  white,  firmly  closed  lips  told  of  the 
mental  struggle  going  on  within.  Constance 
left  the  room,  saying  softly  to  Mr.  Carnegie 
as  she  went,  "  I  am  sure  she  will  listen  to 
you  ;  try  to  comfort  her." 

Helen  still  stood  looking  perseveringly  out 
of  the  window.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  scene ; 
the  rain  fell  heavily,  and  Rome,  on  a  rainy 
day;  is  most  depressing.  The  sharp  gusts  of 
wind  drove  around  the  corners  of  the  streets 
and  the  few  pedestrians  who  were  exposed 
to  its  force  folded  their  cloaks  about  them, 
and  bent  their  heads  as  they  labored  along. 
Although  her  wide-open  eyes  seemed  to  be 
taking  in  everything  without,  actually  she 
saw  nothing ;  and  if  one  had  asked  her  if 
the  dr-.y  was  dull  or  pleasant,  she  could  not 
I  old.  Her  mind  was  filled,  absorbed, 
with  that  one  terrible  thought.  A  thousand 


times  since  she  had  uttered  that  falsehood, 
since  she  had  perjured  her  soul,  she  had  re- 
gretted it  bitterly  ;  she  had  even  wished  her 
tongue  had  been  palsied  before  she  had  said 
the  fatal  words  that  had  taught  him  to  de- 
spise her.  She  seemed  to  be  unconscious  of 
Mr.  Carnegie's  presence,  and  he  spoke  twice 
to  her  before  she  turned  sharply  upon  him 
with  an  angry  "  Why  do  you  trouble  me  ? 
Cannot  you  see  I  am  occupied  with  my  own 
thoughts  ?  " 

"  i  do  not  wish  to  annoy  you,  Helen ;  you 
said  you  would  see  me,  and  I  hoped  you 
might  need  me  in  your  trouble,"  he  replied, 
almost  humbly. 

"  In  my  trouble  !  what  trouble  ?  Ah,  I 
forgot ;  you  played  the  spy  last  night,  and 
listened  to  my  conversation.  It  was  an  im- 
pertinent, cowardly  act,"  she  continued,  with 
fierce  anger ;  "  but  don't  think  I  meant  what 
I  said  when  I  told  him  I  did  not  love  him  ; 
no,  for  at  this  moment  I  love  him  a  thousand 
times  better  than  before." 

"  O  Helen,  why  do  you  misjudge  me? 
You  know  me  incapable  of  acting  the  spy. 
Fitzhaven  told  me  you  were  there  alone, 
and  I  stepped  upon  the  balcony  just  at  the 
moment  when  the  Pri:;ce  turned  away."  He 
spoke  sorrowfully  and  reproachfully ;  but  in- 
stead of  soothing  her  excitement  it  seemed 
to  increase  it,  for  she  went  on  in  a  hard,  al- 
most insolent  tone,  "  I  do  not  believe  you. 
You  presume  upon  the  right  our  engage- 
ment gives  you  to  follow  me  and  listen  to 
me ;  but  I  hope  you  understand  me  when  I 
say  the  words  1  addressed  to  the  Prince 
Conti  were  not  true ;  they  were  utterly 
false,  as  false  as  all  my  life  has  been,  as 
false  as  the  words  I  repeated  to  you  when  I 
said  I  would  be  your  wife,  and  that  I  hoped 
in  time  to  come  to  love  you.  When  I  said  it 
I  knew  I  was  lying ;  I  knew  I  could  never 
love  you,  never.  It  was  a  farce,  but  it  is 
now  played  to  the  end  and  finished,  and  the 
time  has  come  when  I  must  tell  you  so.  I 
know  you  will  despise  me ;  I  do  not  care 
what  your  opinion  of  me  is ;  since  he  hates 
and  scorns  me,  I  wish  all  the  world  to  do 
the  same.  I  never  loved  you,  I  never  could 
love  you  ;  and  more,  I  never  intended  to  be 
your  wife ! " 

"  O  Helen,"  he  interrupted,  "  why  did 
you  say  you  would  be  my  wife  ?  It  was  un- 
necessary ;  I  would  have  been  your  friend 
always,  and  I  had  determined  to  trouble  you 
no  more  with  my  entreaties." 

"  I  feared  myself,  I  feared  I  was  not  strong 
enough  to  keep  the  resolve  I  had  made.  I 
thought  my  engagement  to  you  would  be  a 
restraint  and  a  protection.  But  I  never  be- 
lieved the  sacrifice  would  be  required  of  me," 
she  said,  drawing  near  him,  and  fixing  her 
eyes  on  him  with  a  strange  solemnity.  '•  I 
did  not  think  I  should  live  to  be  your  vrife. 
I  hoped  to  die  before  the  year  had  expired, 


WOVEN    OF   MANY   THREADS. 


and  then  you  never  would  have  discovered 
my  deception.  For  a  long  time  I  have  suf- 
feivd  much  here,"  pressing  her  hand  to 
her  heart.  "  A  year  ago  1  consulted  a  phy- 
sician, and  he  told  me  I  could  not  live 
long;  he  deceived  me.  I  thought  to  have 
gone  before,  but  I  am  still  here.  Now  let 
me  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  and  then  we 
will  part,  —  you  with  deep  scorn  and  con- 
tempt for  me,  and  I  freed  from  a  vow 
that  has  pressed  heavily  upon  me  ever  since 
I  made  it.  It  is  useless  to  wait,  to  hope  ;  I 
shall  never  be  your  wife,  never.  The 
thought  of  it  turns  my  friendship,  my  liking, 
for  you  into  positive  hate.  O,  how  expedi- 
ency and  deception  have  blighted  my  life  !  It 
has  all  been  a  falsehood  from  the  beginning," 
she  cried  in  tones  of  sharp  anguish.  "  I  hate 
the  world,  but  I  hate  myself  more.  And  if 
you  do  not  leave  me,  I  know  I  shall  hate  you 
also." 

A  flush  of  wounded  pride  passed  over  the 
face  of  Mr.  Carnegie  as  he  turned  away 
from  her,  but  he  said  nevertheless,  very  gen- 
tly, "Helen,  it  is  not  necessary  to  tell  me 
this  so  cruelly.  I  have  always  told  you  I 
should  be  to  you  only  what  you  wished.  If 
you  have  no  further  need  of  my  friendship, 
my  kindness,  I  will  cease  to  afflict  you  with 
my  presence."  He  had  reached  the  door, 
but  he  turned  to  look  at  her  again,  as  he 
thought  for  the  last  time.  Perhaps  some- 
thing in  his  face,  or  the  thought  that  she 
was  losing  forever  her  bast  friend,  caused  a 
sudden  revulsion  of  feeling.  Springing  for- 
ward, and  throwing  herself  almost  prone,  and 
clasping  his  feet,  she  raised  her  eyes,  wild 
with  an  agony  of  entreaty,  crying,  "  Do  not, 
do  not  leave  me  !  I  have  no  friend  but  you. 
O,  have  pity  on  me!  I  was  mad!  Forgive 
me,  I  was  mail  to  speak  such  cruel  words !  " 

"  My  poor  child,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  broken 
with  emotion,  as  he  raised  her  from  her  pros- 
trate position,  "I  implore  you  to  be  calm. 
"  Do  not  think  of  me,  think  only  of  yourself. 
It  is  unnecessary  for  me  to  tell  you  what  I 
have  repeated  so  many  times.  I  am  your 
friend  through  everything.  Do  with  me  as 
you  will,  I  am  always  the  same." 

"  But  you  understand  I  can  never  marry 
you,"  she  moaned. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  understand  it.  I  do  not  ask  it. 
I  do  not  wish  it  if  your  feelings  oppose 
it.  •  We  will  say  no  more  about  it." 

He  led  her  to  a  sofa,  gravely  and  kindly, 
as  though  there  was  no  wound  in  his  heart. 

"  Rest  here,"  he  said,  "  and  calm  yourself 
by  thinking  of  the  peace  and  repose  that 
await  us  all  after  the  agony  of  life." 

He  drew  a  chair  near  her,  and,  taking  her 
trembling  hands  in  his,  he  held  them  gently 
and  firmly ;  neither  spoke.  She  lay  quiet 
with  her  eyes  closed.  Gradually  her  con- 
vulsive moans  died  into  silence,  the  lips 
ceased  to  quiver,  and  she  slept  from  ex- 


haustion.    Then,  looking  at  her  long  and 
|  tenderly,  his  eyes  dim  with  tears,  Li 
heaving  with  suppressed  sobs,  In-   t. 
with  his  lips  one  of  the  golden  < 
<  quietly  left  the  room. 

Jt  was  a  glorious  morning  in  Man  1 
j  dozens  of  carriages  were  passing  out  <if  the. 
I  Porta  San  Sebasiiano  to  the  meet  near  the 
i  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella.     The  pn  ater  |  art 
of  the  occupants  of  the  c  ere   in 

their  riding-dresses,  and  near  thim  cantered 
the  grooms  with  their  hones.  (Jentli  n:i-n 
:  in  top-boots  and  red  coats  talked  <:ayly  to 
fair  girls  with  sparkling  eyes,  white 
lets,  and  jewelled  whips.  Conspicuous 
the  horses  waiting  for  their  fair  bifrtJens 
j  was  a  superb  black  English  hunter,  that 
|  pranced  and  pawed,  impatient  under  the 
restraining  hand  of  the  groom.  Fitzhawn 
had  sent  to  Scotland  for  this  splendid  crea- 
ture as  a  gift  for  Florence ;  but  when  he  saw 
the  sharp  upright  ears,  small  head,  and 
wild  eyes  of  the  beast,  he  decided  she  was 
unsafe  for  a  lady  to  ride.  This  morning, 
with  a  stubborn  determination  none  could 
resist,  Mrs.  Tremaine  insisted  on  mounting 
her.  Mr.  Carnegie  implored,  Fitzhaven  ad- 
vised, but  she  only  replied,  smiling,  '•  I  am 
sure  of  myself.  I  promise  you  lean  manage 
her."  She  never  looked  more  lovely, 
calmly  sat  on  the  prancing,  pawing  creature, 
scarcely  controlled  by  the  strong  hand  of 
the  groom,  surrounded  by  a  dozen  or  more 
of  her  admirers,  who  lauded  her  in  the  most 
extravagant  terms  for  her  courage  and  spirit. 
Excitement  had  lent  a  flush  to  her  cheek, 
that  had  been  paler  than  marble  for  many 
days  ;  and  only  a  close  observer  could  have 
detected  a  restlessness  in  the  glance  of  her 
bright  eye  and  a  hard,  determined  expres- 
sion around  her  smiling  mouth. 

The  hounds  were  away  with  a  whoop  and 
halloo,  and  swift  as  lightning,  freed  from 
the  restraining  hand  of  the  groom,  the  black 
hunter  was  off.  The  Prince  Conti,  riding 
by  the  side  of  the  American  heiress,  fLulu  <1 
by  Helen,  and  all  noticed  he  did  not  salute 
her;  but  she  alone  saw  the  look  of  cold 
scorn  and  contempt  that  shot  frcm  his  • 

Perhaps  in  all  the  world  there  is  not  more 
dangerous  hunting-ground  than  the  Roman 
campagna,  —  avast  iindtilat ing  plain  (  ; 
with  almost  impenetrable  hedges,  and 
intersected  with  deep  ditches.  Innumerable 
ruins  of  tombs,  temples,  and  aqueducts, 
partially  covered  with  mounds  of  earth, 
weeds,  and  tangled  vines,  render  the  surface 
deceptive  and  dangerous ;  while  unknown 
and  abandoned  excavations  furni.-h  openings 
and  embankments  down  which  the  im-us- 
pecting  rider  is  often  plunged  headlong. 

There  was  plenty  of  game  to  be  brought 
down.  The  hunters  and  hounds  were  soon 
scattered  in  different  directions.  Mr.  Car- 
negie followed  for  some  time  the  rapid  pace 


126 


WOVEN   OF  MANY   THREADS. 


of  Helen  until  she  entirely  outstripped  him 
and  was  lost  in  the  distance. 

The  Prince  Conti,  a  prey  to  the  most 
uncomfortable  thoughts,  soon  left  the  com- 
pany of  the  heiress,  whom  he  had  only  joined 
to  pique  Mrs.  Tremaine,  and,  striking  his 
t-purs  into  his  horse,  dashed  off,  he  knew 
not  whither.  He  felt  no  interest  in  the  hunt. 
He  did  not  care  whether  he  was  in  at  the 
death,  or  whether  an  animal  was  brought 
down  or  not.  So  on  he  rode  over  miles  of 
country,  recklessly  and  rapidly,  objectless 
and  aimless. 

It  was  about  noonday  when  he  found  him- 
self entirely  separated  from  the  others.  Not 
a  trace  of  horse  or  rider,  hound  or  fox.  He 
listened,  not  the  faintest  whoop  or  halloo 
sounded  on  his  ear.  All  was  silent  a?>  the 
ruined  tomb  near  which  he  stopped.  He 
must  have  ridden  very  far,  for  the  dome  of 
St.  Peters  made  but  a  faint  blot  on  the  blue 
sky,  and  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella  was 
miles  and  miles  behind. 

Perhaps  the  tranquillity  of  the  scene,  the 
beauty  of  nature,  the  solitude  and  loneliness, 
touched  the  not  entirely  ignoble  heart  of 
the  man,  for  his  face  grew  soft  and  sad  as  he 
gazed  into  the  distance,  and  tears,  real  tears, 
dimmed  his  eyes  as  he  said,  "  Why  did  she 
undeceive  me  ?  Why  did  she  not  leave  me 
always  to  believe  her  the  angel  I  thought 
her  to  be  ?  There  is  nothing  so  cruel  as  to 
be  rudely  awakened  from  an  illusion.  She 
has  taught  me  to  doubt  all  humanity." 

Suddenly  on  a  rising  ground  before  him 
appsared  a  rider  coming  swiftly  and  surely 
in  his  direction.  Striking  the  spurs  into  his 
horse,  ha  sprang  forward  saying,  "  My  God  ! 
it  is  a  woman,  and  her  horse  is  unmanagable. 
Shs  has  no  control  over  him,  and  he  is 
making  straight  for  the  excavations.  Per- 
haps I  can  intercept  her  and  avert  a  ter- 
rible calamity." 

With  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  advancing  rid- 
er, he  dashed  toward  her.  A  moment  after 
he  grew  livid  as  death,  and  a  cry  burst  from 
his  lips:  " Madre  di  Dio,  it  is  she;  I  will 
save  her,  or  die  with  her." 

Yes,  it  was  she,  Helen  Tremaine.  A  calm 
white  face,  back  from  which  streamed  rays 
of  golden  hair,  eyes  lit  up  with  a  sort  of  rap- 
turous enthusiasm,  lips  which  smiled  the  di- 
vinest  smile  he  had  ever  seen,  small  hands 
grasping  tightly  the  bridle,  a  slight  upright 
figure  firmly  seated,  a  flying  horse  with  eyes 
of  fire  and  distended  nostrils,  shot  by  him 
straight  and  swift  as  an  arrow  from  a  bow. 
He  ma<!e  one  desperate  effort  to  throw  him- 
self before  the  animal,  to  grasp  the  bridle, 
but  it  was  ineffectual.  He  saw  her  pass 
straight  on  to  certain  destruction.  But  as 
the  passed  she  smiled  a  loving,  tender  smile. 
Although  she  was  face  to  face  with  death, 
sho  had  smiled  on  him  again,  and  that  was 
enough.  With  a  terrible  cry  of  grief  he 


turned  and  flew  after  her.  He  remembered 
calling  out  to  her  in  passionate  tones ,  of 
warning  her  of  the  danger  ;  of  imploring  her 
to  save  herself ;  and  that  even  while  he  spoke 
both  horse  and  rider  had  disappeared  down 
the  embankment  into  the  excavation  be- 
low. 

When  he  reached  her  she  was  leaning 
against  a  broken  column,  her  hand  pressed 
to  her  heart,  gasping  as  one  in  the  last  strug- 
gle. 

On  her  face  were  the  unmistakable  signs 
of  death,  yet  around  her  sweet  lips  still  lin- 
gered the  divine  smile. 

"  O  my  darling  !  "  he  cried,  kneeling  be- 
side her,  and  taking  her  head  on  his  breast, 
"  tell  me,  where  are  you  hurt  ?  '' 

"  I  am  not  hurt,"  she  gasped,  "  I  am 
healed.  Cannot  you  see  I  am  healed  ?  " 

Then,  nestling  closer  to  him,  and  laying 
her  hand  against  his  cheek  with  a  caressing 
touch,  she  said,  "  You  know  now,  darling,  — 
do  you  not  ?  —  that  when  I  said  I  loved  you 
no  more  it  was  an  untruth.  I  loved  you  then 
as  I  always  loved  you,  as  I  love  you  now.  I 
said  those  words  for  your  sake,  because  I 
thought  if  you  despised  me  you  would  cease 
to  suffer ;  but  it  broke  my  heart,  Ortensio." 

He  could  not  reply  because  of  his  sobs. 

Her  little  soft  hand  strayed  over  his  face, 
and  she  murmured,  "  I  am  happy,  so  happy ! 
You  will  think  of  me  sometimes,  darling  ?  " 
Turning  her  face  to  his  breast,  with  a  sud- 
den strength  she  clasped  her  hands  around 
his  neck.  He  held  her  thus  close  to  his 
heart,  and  with  mingled  sobs  and  prayers 
implcred  her  forgiveness. 

How  long  she  lay  in  that  last  embrace  he 
never  knew.  When  he  looked  into  her  face 
the  blue  eyes  were  still  open,  the  sweet  lips 
still  smiled,  but  the  spirit  had  passed  away 
forever. 

Hours  after,  one  of  the  huntsmen,  who  had 
ridden  far  from  the  others,  peered  curiously 
down  this  abandoned  excavation,  and  saw 
there,  on  a  green  mound  by  a  broken  col- 
umn, the  Prince  Conti  bending  in  a  sort  of 
stupor  over  the  inanimate  form,  the  dead 
face,  of  lovely  Helen  Tremaine. 


CHAPTER   XLV. 

HELMSFORD    HALL. 

TWO  years  ago,  I,  the  writer  of  this  little 
history  woven  of  so  many  threads,  re- 
turned to  England  after  an  absence  of  some 
years.  Among  the  letters  awaiting  my  ar- 
rival was  one  from  Lady  Dinsmore,  inviting 
me  to  Helmsford,  to  celebrate  the  anniver- 
sary of  the  marriage  of  her  daughter  to  the 
Duke  of  Fitzhaven.  This  invitation  I  glad- 
ly accepted,  as  for  a  long  time  I  had  heard 


WOVEN   OF   MANY   THREADS. 


127 


little  of  the  characters  that  had  interested 
me  so  much  some  years  before. 

It  was  near  the  close  of  a  delightful  June 
day  that  I  arrived  at  the  Helmslbrd  station. 
I  had  scarcely  touched  the  platform  when  I 
was  clasped  in  the  warm  embrace  of  (iuido. 
now  the  perfect  type  of  a  handsome  English 
country  gentleman. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  the  servants  will  at- 
tend to  your  luggage,  my  mother  and  Con- 
stant,•  aiv  impatient  to  see  you."  He  led 
me  to  a  handsome  trap,  I  seated  myself,  the 
groom  sprang  up  behind,  and  Guido,  tak- 
ing the  reins,  drove  swiftly  toward  Helins- 
ford. 

I  was  interested,  as  well  as  pleased,  to 
notice  the.  respect  and  evident  affection 
with  which  the  tenantry  greeted  this  young 
man,  as  we.  passed  over  the  estate  lying 
between  the  station  and  the  Hall.  Although 
he  was  not  a  Vandeleur,  he  seemed  to  have 
found  a  warm  place  in  their  hearts. 

Twenty  years  before,  I  had  visited  IL.-hns- 
ford  with  poor  Richard  Vandeleur,  then 
fre*h  from  college,  with  all  a  boy's  ardent 
hopes  for  the  future.  I  had  loved  him  well, 
and  tears  dimmed  my  eyes  as  I  thought  of 
him,  with  all  those  hopes  unfulfilled,  lying 
in  his  silent  grave,  and  a  stranger  occupying 
his  place. 

As  we  drove  up  the  avenue  I  felt  a  little 
saddened  by  these  th  visits,  but  when  I  saw 
the  charming  group  that  awaited  me  on  the 
terrace,  old  memories  vanished,  and  I  was 
prepared  to  enjoy  the  present. 

There  w.is  Lady  Dinsmore  looking  scarce- 
ly a  day  older  than  she  did  eight  years 
before,  when  she  toll  me  with  tears  of  joy 
that  she  ha  I  discovered  her  son,  and  the 
singular  history  of  the  deception  that  had 
been  practised  upon  her.  By  her  side  stood 
Constance,  a  little  more  matronly,  but  love- 
lier, if  possible,  than  in  her  girlhood.  Near 
them  Fitzhaven  and  Florence,  a  merry,  come- 
ly couple,  and  a  little  behind,  arranged,  as 
Florence  said,  like  the  tableau  of  a  play, 
stool  Ma  lame  Lan  lei,  and  by  her  side  a 
pale  mournful  woman,  dressed  in  wi  low's 
weeds,  with  the  most  glorious  eyes  I  had 
ever  seen,  lidding  by  the  hand  a  lovely  boy 
of  three  years.  The  woman  was  Mona,  and 
the  little  boy  was  (inid  /s  son,  whom  they 
brought  forward  an  I  pre~entel  as  Richard 
Vandeleur.  Quid  >  caught  him  up  in  his 
arms  with  the  fondest  look  I  have  ever  seen 
in  a  father's  fice.  "  Ts  he  not  a  fine  boy  ? 
lie  is  Vandeleur  of  Ilelmsford,  and  I  think 
he  will  be  a  worthy  representative  of  the 
family.  All  the  people  idolize  him,  they 
always  call  him  Vandeleur.  In  fact,  I  think 
they  forget  he  has  any  other  name." 

After  dinner,  when  we  all  sat  on  the  ter- 
race, Guido,  Fitzhaven,  and  myself  smoking 
our  fine  Havanas,  the  conversation  naturally 
turned  to  the  old  days. 


''  Tell  me  first,"  I  said,  "  what  has  become 
of  Mr.  Carin 

'•  We-  invited  him   here  for  a  month,"  re- 
plied   Lady    Dinsmore,     "but    he    did    not 
accept.     He  has    lived    almost   the   !!;• 
recluse  at   Carnegie   Hall,    ever   MHCC    the 
death  of  dear  Helen.      Did   you  know   that 
none  of  the   ph\M<  ian-.    believed   her  death 
to  be  caused  by  her  fall?    There  was  ]:• 
of  an  injury  either  internal  or  external." 

"Indeed,"  1  replied,  "  1  am  astonished.  I 
thought  she  was  killed  almost  in-tantly  bv 
being  thrown  from  her  ho 

"No;  the  doctors  have  decided  that  slie 
died  of  heart-di:-easc,  from  which  she  had 
suffered  for  some  time,  unknown  to  any  of 
her  friends.  Of  course,  the  iear  and  excite- 
ment of  the  moment  caused  the  sudden  and 
fatal  result." 

'•  We  have  all  mourned  deeply  for  her," 
said  Constance.  "  In  spite  of  her  wayward- 
ness, she  was  very  sweet  and  noble,  and  I 
loved  her  as  a  sister." 

"  You  saw  the  monument  Mr.  Carnegie 
hr.s  erected  to  her  memory  at  Came^ie 
Hall,  did  you  not,  Fitz  ?  "  inquired  Florence 
of  her  husband. 

"  Yes.  dear,  and  there  is  not  a  more 
beautiful  thing  in  all  Scotland.  It  was  made 
in  Italy  at  an  immense  cost,  —  they  say,  the 
half  of  his  fortune.  With  the  consent  of  her 
mother  she  was  buried  at  Carnegie,  and  he 
spends  his  lime,  poor  heart-broken  man! 
watching  over  the  remains  of  her  he  wor- 
shipped. It  is  said  he  has  a  room  n 
ever  enters  filled  with  her  portraits  that  he 
has  painted  from  memory.  lie  never  leaves 
Carnegie  Hall.  All  he  loves  is  there.  He 
told  me  nothing  would  induce  him  to  vi.-it 
Rome.  He  set-ins  to  have  a  horror  of  it  and 
all  connected  with  it.  Madame  de  Marc 
and  Helen's  mother  and  sisters  spend  some 
part  of  every  year  with  him.  He  is  much 
attached  to  her  family,  and  has  dowered  two 
of  her  sisters  handsomely,  and  man  led  them 
to  young  Scotch  m  hies.  The  fn>t  daughter 
of  the  eldest  is  (ailed  Helen,  and  Mie  will 
be  his  heiress,  without  doubt." 

"  And  the  Prince  Conti,  he  mourned 
deeply  for  her,  did  he  not  ?  " 

"O  yes,  indeed  he  did."  replied  Lady 
Dinsmore.  "  For  a  long' time  after  her  death 
he  remained  in  a  sort  of  Mupor  :  hi-  friends 
feared  for  his  reason.  However,  he  travelled 
two  or  three  years,  and  when  he  returned 
home  he  was  more  cheerful,  although  he  has 
never  been  quite  the  same.  Two  years  ago 
we  spent  the  winter  in  Rome,  and  1 
among  the  first  to  call  upon  us.  He  was 
dressed  in  deep  mourning,  which  lie  says  he 
shall  always  wear,  and  scarcely  spoke  on 
any  other  subject  beside  his  sonow  lor  lei- 
loss,  lie  told  me  that  shortly  sifter  her 
death  one  of  his  family  left  him  a  sm.dl 
fortune,  by  which  means  he  hud  regained 


128 


WOVEN  OF  MANY  THREADS. 


two  of  his  palaces  and  the  most  of  his  family 
jewels ;  but  he  added,  with  the  dreariest 
sigh  1  ever  heard,  '  It  came  too  late  to 
make  me  happy ;  I  do  not  value  it,  she  can- 
not share  it  with  me.'  1  thought  he  would 
neves  marry,  but  some  time  ago  I  heard  he 
was  engaged  to  a  wealthy  Italian  countess, — 
a  stern,  dark  woman,  some  years  older  than 
himself,  and  an  exact  contrast  to  our  Helen." 

"I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  said 
Guido,  laying  his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 
"  Last  summer  we  had  the  honor  of  enter- 
taining my  dear  old  friend,  the  Cardinal. 
He  came  with  his  chaplain  and  servants, 
and  stayed  some  time.  He  seemed  delighted 
with  everything,  but  I  think  he  was  a  little 
disappointed  because  I  had  not  converted 
all  the  family  to  the  Catholic  religion.  He 
consoled  himself,  however,  by  thanking  the 
Madonna  that  I  had  not  turned  Protestant 
through  the  powerful  influence  of  these 
charming  creatures.  We  tried  to  entertain 
him  in  the  most  sumptuous  manner  possible. 
It  was  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  be  able  to 
return  even  to  some  small  extent  his  kind- 
ness of  other  days." 

"  But  we  were  all  nearly  driven  to  insanity 
during  his  stay,"  said  Florence,  laughing 
heartily  at  the  recollection.  ''  Our  good 
country  people,  not  being  accustomed  to  the 
dress  of  a  Roman  dignitary,  surrounded  the 
carriage  of  the  poor  old  Cardinal,  and  stared 
at  him  in  such  a  way  that  we  almost  died 
of  mortification,  and  one  day  he  said  mass 
in  the  little  chapel  Guido  built  on  the  estate 
for  the  Irish  laborers,  and  they  all  came 
from  far  and  near,  as  though  it  were  a  great 
spectacle." 

"  I  think,"  said  Constance,  "  he  regretted 
more  than  anything  that  our  baby  was  to  be 
brought  up  a  Protestant.  Dear  old  gentle- 
man, I  am  very  fond  of  him,  but  I  cannot 
change  rny  religion  to  please  him.  Although 
I  am  perfectly  contented  that  Guido  is  a 
Catholic,  because  he  has  always  been  one, 
yet  neither  of  us  wishes  our  baby  to  be.  He 
is  the  representative  of  an  English  Protes- 
tant family,  and  so  must  follow  the  religion 
of  his  forefathers." 

"  We  will  go  to-morrow  and  see  the  new 
school-house  my  precious  mother  has  built 
for  the  poor,  and  all  the  other  improvements 
she  has  made.  They  worship  her  as  though 
she  ware  an  angel,"  said  Guido,  looking 
fondly  at  Lady  Dinsmore. 

"  I  think  my  people  love  me,"  she  said, 
"  but  they  love  Guido  and  Constance  equally 
well.  And  Mona  and  our  baby  are  adored 
because  they  bear  the  name  of  Vandeleur. 
We  live  the  most  of  our  time  here.  I  prefer 


Helmsford  to  Dinsmore  Castle,  Constance 
is  at  home  in  sight  of  the  rectory,  and  Guido 
is  always  happy  where  we  are.  Yet  we 
spend  most  of  our  winters  in  Rome,  as  we 
cannot  be  'entirely  separated  from  Si?ter 
Agatha,  and  Mona  wishes  to  be  with  her 
mother  some  of  the  time,  but  she  will  not 
be  parted  from  our  boy  for  a  day.  She  fan- 
cies he  resembles  her  dead  husband.  So  we 
arrange  it  to  please  all ;  we  spend  four 
months  in  Rome,  two  at  Dinsmore  Castle, 
and  the  other  six  here.  We  are  such  a 
happy,  contented  family  now,  I  can  scarcely 
realize  we  have  all  passed  through  so  many 
vicissitudes  and  sorrows." 

"  What  was  it  I  heard  the  other  day  in 
London  of  a  talented  singer  who  gave  a 
concert  in  Covent  Garden  to  raise  funds  for 
a  foundling  hospital  ?  "  —  and  I  glanced  at 
Guido  as  I  spoke.  "  Also  of  a  new  opera 
that  has  met  with  such  a  success  ?  All  the 
world  is  going  crazy  over  it,  and  the  com- 
poser, they  say,  enjoys  a  greater  reputation 
than  any  celebrity  of  the  day." 

"If  there  is  any  merit  in  anything  I  do, 
give  Constance  the  credit,"  said  Guido,  with 
his  old  sweet  smile,  as  he  encircled  his  wife 
with  his  arm,  and  drew  her  very  near  to 
him,  while  he  pressed  his  mother's  hand 
tenderly  to  his  lips.  "  I  owe  all  my  success, 
all  my  happiness,  to  these  two  angels." 

The  little  Richard  was  brought  around 
for  his  good-night  kiss,  and  was  sent  away 
in  the  arms  of  his  nurse,  followed  by  Mona. 
One  by  one  we  fell  into  silence  and  happy 
musing,  while  we  watched  the  round  white 
moon  rise  behind  the  row  of  tall  lindens, 
touching  with  silver  the  spire  of  the  old 
church,  and  flooding  with  soft  light  the  park, 
garden,  and  terraces  of  Helmsford. 

Travellers  who  have  visited  Rome,  do  you 
remember  in  a  small  cabinet  of  an  old 

palace  on  the  Via a  picture  covered 

with  a  blue  silk  curtain,  which  the  custodian 
sometimes  draws  aside  at  the  request  of  a 
visitor,  and  reveals  the  smiling  face  of  a 
lovely  woman  ;  the  slight,  elegant  form  robed 
in  pale  blue  satin,  pearls  on  her  arms  and 
bosom,  waves  of  golden  blonde  hair,  and 
limpid  blue  eyes  ? 

"  Is  she  not  lovely  ?  "  inquires  the  custo- 
dian. "  It  is  the  portrait  of  a  young  Eng- 
lish lady  who  was  killed  some  years  ago  at 
the  hunt." 

Often  as  the  last  rays  of  sunset  flood  the 
little  cabinet,  a  grave,  handsome  man,  clad 
in  black,  enters,  draws  back  the  curtain 
reverently,  and  gazes  with  tear-dimmed 
eyes  long  and  tenderly  on  the  face  of  Helen 
Tremaine. 


Cambridge  :  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  and  Co. 


RHB 


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